When he was new, I wanted power. I sought power through adopting his ideals: strength, endurance, and willpower. I saw him and I became one with him. He is of me as much as I am of him. The strange beast on the back of my left hand is the result. I can chase him, I can poke his eyes out, and slash his lips apart, but I cannot catch him so others may see the object of my torment. Now, as the chase lengthens and leaves a long shadow on every evening of my life, I cannot make others see him as I see him. This is my best result, as it stands witness to Friday. If looked upon hard enough, the traces of his features are presented in pain.
The mythological Questing Beast eluded King Pellinore for the knight's entire life. It bears the head of a serpent, the body of a leopard, the legs of a lion, and the feet of a hart. It is a product of demonic consort over a jilted woman's incestuous lust for her brother. It appears every so often in Arthurian legends such as Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur as a reminder of Arthur's encounter with Margause. Even the best men can be unwittingly condemned by fate and circumstance to chase glory in the form of a prize, be it questing beast, round table, or holy grail.