Many legends give me different appearances but I am also real. In the past I have a crown and scales of a different color than I do now. In real life, watch me run. Otherwise avert your eyes and hold your breath.

Low-level labyrinth, mortuary maze, Or a means to pick nits, from flea-ridden strays?

A crest in the west, a patron in east. Big and powerful in the west, old and wise in the east. From mythos I am, not real but a tale. What am I?

Often I’m debated, determined a fallacy or legacy. Some find me essential. Some find me obtuse and ridiculous at times. Everyone fawns over me for my beauty for I am made by the hand.

Made from a metamorphic rock, old skool teachers still use me to help get their ideas across. I will be covered in dust until a sponge returns me to my matte black, maybe green, finish.