Three little birds. How charming.
My golden-haired Gyth, a little Linnet, a Nightingale. A sweet voice, sweet temper and as temptingly innocent as daisy.
To know the desire of a man is to hold him in the palm of your hand. No need for harsh words, for bloodshed. Know his desires, and you have his world. My Nightingale longs for a song worthy of her voice and her dreams. I shall give her the songs to sing, the stories that she yearns to tell. Of princes and fair maidens, of betrayal and tragedy. Her talent will weave them into the minds and hearts of others. The truth ... the real truth, not the mealy mouthed lies of these pale milksop northerners.
Hot-headed Magpie, flame haired, copper-topped Steora. As acquisitive and curious as I could ever wish her to be. An intelligent bird, the Magpie, it gathers what is precious. Easy to tame by a glittering trail of what it desires. A murderous, sly bird also, if it is taught to kill.
Wulfrieda, her desire is freedom, her nature as savage ... if only she knew it, as the Wolf of her name. How I would enjoy revealing to her the truth of herself, swift high flying falcon. Show her all the savage freedom she burns for, returning in her freedom back to her master's gloved hand.
