In Victorian times, men used to lay their cloak over me, so women could step down from carriages without ruining their shoes or dress. What am I, that, when stepped in, will make a mess?

I’m small and round with a heart of stone. On tables I gather, in groves I’m grown. Squish me to gather my liquid gold. A sign of peace from scripts of old.

I can be a great work Or a child's view of cheese. A gentle starry night, Or clocks melting on trees. I'm hung for all to see, Bringing some to their knees.

Medieval armor, ominous e-mails, multi-branch businesses, necklaces. What do they have in common?

Shiny accolades that gather dust, symbols of past glories, they stand like silent guardians of your victories.