He never wanted love, though. You cannot eat love, nor buy a horse with it, nor warm your halls on a cold night.
In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining.
Give a thing a name and it will somehow come to be.
His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin.
Kind? How boring that would be. I aspire to be wicked.
I need to sleep, but fear to dream.