In general, I never expire, but on the table, I’m made less stable, with iodine and chloride. A former staple, a traded commodity, once tied to soldiers’ wages. Too much can hurt you, not enough leaves things bland; have you figured out, just what I am?

I'm known for my melancholy, A symbol of past druidry. You may find me in a cemetery Or where water whispers quietly.

A single glass guardian, perched high with pride, keeps one eye keen while the other hides. A fashion of the past, a lens of the elite. Balanced on the bridge, a vision discreet.

I am a symbol of French cuisine, but my origins can be traced back to thirteenth century Austria. Making me by hand takes a lot of time.

I am the belly of the castle, but I have no hunger. I am a place for the forgotten, yet heroes seek me out for glory. In one world, I am stone, cold, and heavy with chains. In another, I am made of paper, plastic polyhedrals, and a master's voice. I hold the deepest secrets of the king, or the greatest treasures of the dragon. What am I?