Velvet Gavel

Forged in the trophy room of a shuttered estate, the gavel was pried loose by a groundskeeper who refused to be a ghost in his own garden. It has crossed the B Pool's campsite for decades, its velvet masking the sound of each important blow. Every new bearer adds a small stain to the cloth, until the surface is a map of quiet victories.

When held, the velvet grows warm and the oak core hums with a low, somber note. It never misses a table when a bargain is broken, and it leaves no bruise; only a new name on the lease. The gavel also refuses to be stolen back, returning to its bearer by sunrise no matter how far it travels.

It waits at the gate between the final applause and the first cry of the taken, deciding which silence will be remembered and which will be buried. When the old guard demands a response, the gavel speaks as the only voice that can end an argument without drawing blood.