Can you tell he's a bard?
As the sentence is passed down, the ever present smile crumbles a moment. For once, the Liberator of Overlook is speechless. No one would have heard him anyway with the ruckus the announcement made. Women bemoaned his fate. A few were angry or inspired enough to "join 'im myself". But the star of the show was silent.
Still remanded to the court, Darr brooded. Even Big Jack, who know now would be the time to strike, stayed away. It was this way for some time, before Darr stood up on his stool and began to speak. His tone was low at first, but soon it was fiery, impassioned, any no one could stop listening who tried.
The morrow will come, and like all the morns before it, the uncaring sun shall gaze down on the trivials of history. But is it trivial to us? No, my friends! Each day to that that live is a struggle, a struggle for life! A struggle of righteousness! A struggle to make our mark before it is erased from history! All men and women great and small strive to make their place under the sun, be they jailed or jailor. Was not the last King of Nerath a small man who quaked in fear within his heart but charged blindly at the gnoll hordes of the Vale of Crimson? Was not Sir Trakad, drunkard and womanizer, responsible for sealing the darkness at the Rift on the Shadowfell by giving of his own life? The great are small and the low are mighty, and all of us will make the mark history demands of us! So, when the morrow comes, and the sun comes blithely again to gaze down on us, I will look up proudly, eyes straight at the uncaring star, and shout, 'I am Dorn Tirae, son of Overlook, and I am here as history demands!
Borra Proudstone, hidden in the stairwell just long enough, smiled to herself.