Poem in the Margins

*Fryd scribbles in his journal on a carriage ride from one place in Waterdeep to another.*
 
Zara
Oh, Zara
 
*He scratches out the lines.*
 
Gorgeous half elf maiden and the pride of Waterdeep
I'll scribe for you these stanzas
and pledge to you my heart to keep
 
*Fryd scratches out more lines. He can't shake the dream from the possession. He can't shake memories of battles with monsters and the undead. How could anyone come to rely on him? Some just aren't the type to settle down. Fryd thinks that he might be that type. He asks himself how he fell into that trap.*
 
Pauper princess
sacred owner of my soul
what need have we for food
when we've love to fill our bowl?
 
*Fryd scratches out more lines. He puts his face in his palm and leans against the back corner of the carriage interior. He hopes in vain that his stately mind-linked chum from the realm of fire isn't psychically eavesdropping. This isn't going to work. Nothing will work. Fryd tells himself that he has too many shortcomings as a person. He tells himself that he has too far to go before he feels comfortable accepting even a modicum of happiness. He has things to reconcile with Mizzana, probably. He doesn't know how he feels about Mizzana. Zara hasn't ever been particularly warm and welcoming, either. Fryd feels like he sensed something there. He wants there to be something there. He isn't sure. He admits that it's probably nothing. He admits to himself that Zara would probably hate any stupid poem that he wrote.*
 
*Fryd rips the page out of his journal, balls it up, and throws it out the carriage window.*