When faced with foes in fabled places, call on me with many faces I roll on in, I turn the tide A game of chance but I decide

I am the narrow covenant where arm and body convene in silence. I confess labor and warmth without ever moving an inch. Neither seen nor celebrated, I nonetheless make my presence known.

I have no voice, yet I make eyes speak. I have no blade, yet I cut deeper with patience. My center is never reached in one step, Only uncovered by surrendering pieces of myself. I am not what I seem when whole, But only understood when I fall apart.

I have a beak, but not a bird. I have ink, but write no words. I have arms, but fingers not, and on the floor I'm hard to spot. What am I?

I can be a children's toy or an instrument in the professional league, Either way, both can cause auditory fatigue.