I wield eighteen daggers, yet they are sheathed in velvet. I have a sandpaper kiss, but a voice like a soothing hum. I am a liquid that does not flow, And though I walk with silence, I demand all attention. What am I?

I'm not saying that I don't talk, but I keep my mouth shut as much as I can. So much so that people use me as an example! I try to be calm, but alas, I'm an anagram.

I clack when you laugh, I creak when you groan, I build up your castle from marrow and stone. Dogs beg for my cousins, x-rays make me known.

Cloaked in bridal white, I glide upon the mirror's face. My silence is a song, my neck a question's trace. I am often the subject of legends told, of transformation or of beauty brave and bold. What am I?

The fight for freedom. That spin much around the sun. The time for changing.