I am the Questing Beast. My Jaws go snicker-snak, and my claws catch. I cry in the rain, and throw myself off of mountains. Though my countenance repulses me, it draws the eye of so many others. Not because they see my beauty, but they know that my scales can be sold for seven gold coins per pound. My eyes can be used as beacons to alight the darkest caverns and further their explorations of the ancient mines and discoveries of precious metals. My wings are too small, frail, and leathery to allow my body to take flight, and they get caught snickersnak within the boughs of these trees, but they may allow men to stand upon clouds and become as gods one day. But I know they covet my teeth most of all, for it can pierce the heart of both mountains and men. Sometimes, when I scratch at my face so hard my teeth fall out, I leave them in piles where they may be found. They are not strong enough to pierce my scales, else I would chew myself to death. I cannot speak to them. I cannot even scream or howl. I can only gurgle impotently, barely above a whisper, and hope that it may catch the ears of one of the thousands of hunters that stalk this forest in search of me. If I am loud enough, perhaps I may be allowed to die. I can only think in one language, and my claws are too stiff to write. When I hear them crashing through the woods and dining on birds in search of me, I feel elation. For I know that this may be the time that I die.
I tell myself that I will welcome it. That their revulsion of my distended jaw and serpentine face will steel their hearts, and the projection of their fears may send their blades screaming past my scales. That I won’t fight back, no matter how long it takes them to kill me. But I cannot. When they arrive, I feel fright. I feel fear. Not of the end, but of the slowness of its approach. It may take them days. And so I run. Or if I have met them before, I fight back. And I always kill them. I don’t mean to. It makes me feel ill. I always vomit up their guts after I finish chewing them. I try to bury their heads beneath the trees, where the roots may keep the worms away. And then I run. I burble and I trample and scratch a trail and I throw myself off cliffs and hope to die and hope that I might be found again. Sometimes, I know that my claws are long enough. I could stick them down my throat and kill myself. But I don’t. For though I hate my life, it gives so many others purpose. Something to tell their wives and sons. Something for them to do. To put their hopes in. I am the constant companion of the wearied mercenary, looking to end their life in glorious battle instead of their own piss and shit. I give purpose. I give meaning. And so, sometimes I keep myself alive. its all very confusing. I don’t remember all the words anymore. It makes more sense when Alice explains it.
I am the Questing Beast. My heart is electric. My mind is fog. I used to think. I used to know figures and numbers and Shakespeare, and that red flowers were lovely, but now I know only the joy of shade and the tallness of trees.I know what it is like to be a beast, and lay in the dirt and suckle on rocks. I might’ve been a human, or something close, long ago. But I am nothing now. I am an idea. I am what people picture when they hear ‘Questing Beast’.
I am the Questing Beast. Neither the Quest nor Beast may ever end. I am many miles long, now. Perhaps I could even stretch my neck higher than the trees, and rest my head above the canopy. And one day I could speak, and I could say to all the hunters “Here I am! Come, slay me!” and they would. But I know the sun would burn me, and the trees would stab my neck, and my incomprehensible speech would provoke only birds. I babble constantly, trying to find the syllables to speak. But I have forgotten them.
I am the Questing Beast. My thoughts curl like fingers. It is difficult to think properly. Sometimes I look into a pond of water and I see myself and I cry. I weep for my existence. I weep that people have to see me. I weep for those that hunt me. I weep for the Quest and the Beast.
I am the Questing Beast. I feel my thoughts departing. My words crumbling into babbles and grunts. My eyes will be as dolls, empty and lifeless. Instead of approaching the hunters with handshakes, I will growl and frighten them.
I am the Questing Beast. my life gives others purpose. It is all I have now. I see looking-glass on the ground, and through them I see others that look like me. And I sob, for why must others be cursed with my existence? My thoughts track like mud. Have I tried to die here before?
I have forgotten what I am. I hear crashing nearby. My heart quickens. I burble.