I’m knotted in style but never in rope, I sit at your collar, a symbol of hope. Split in two wings, yet I never can fly, I dress up your front when formal days are nearby.

Beneath the waves, a metallic leviathan glides, hidden from prying eyes. Armed and silent, it navigates the deep blue void, a technological ghost in the oceanic night.

I show who you are without a name, A symbol of honor, duty, or claim. Pinned or worn upon your chest, I mark your place among the best. What am I?

It gets placed in a story But has nothing to do with plot. Not a villain nor a hero finding glory. But a necessary element to find a spot.

I'm green and crunchy, usually eaten raw. My little brothers are often pickled.