Beneath the earth where sunlight dies, with stone for walls and barred confines. No open sky, no freedom near, a place of shadows, dread, and fear.

I can be curled with a blade but I have no hair. I can be satin or silk, but I’m not a dress. I’m the final touch on a present, yet I’m the first thing torn away. What am I?

Sought after by many, big bucks for the best. What you saw and see coming, heads straight for your chest. Out of this can come tools, or pendants for necks. On a rack like a towel, mounted to gain respect.

I’m found at a counter, but I’m not to buy. I take what you give me, no questions why. Your presence I note, your details I store. Hand out your paper - and I open the door.

I’m the fireplace’s favorite rug, where flames do dances, snug as a hug. I guard the floor from ember and spark, keeping things safe when the nights are dark. What am I?