I’m forged for battle, yet fit in one hand, Shorter than swords that in sunlight stand. I’m meant for the thrust, not cleaving wide, Worn at the belt or hidden inside. Not made for work, nor carving bread, I serve where silence and closeness tread. What am I?

A bunch of impaled horses Bobbing up and down Centrifugal forces One word that's a noun

I'm a twisted little thing, found in places where styling is everything. I hold and fold styles with an air of mystery.

I split what’s whole and guide your way, One choice becomes two paths to weigh. I feed the mouth and shape the road What am I, with points bestowed?

My voice may be deep, rough, or high In winter I signify a jolly time. Long ago I always knew the hour If I'm very large, I live in a tall tower.