RESONANCE
ACT I, Scene II
In the back streets of Uldah...ACT I, Scene II
The day in Uldah was hot, as it usually was during most days, and especially so between Pearl Lane and the markets, in that sketchy zone between the desperation of refugees and the stalls what would call themselves "honest business" as if that meant anything in the Syndicate-run city. In a back street, on the way to the Quicksand, a bard of notable size had made perhaps the error in judgment of stopping by a threadbare blanket spread upon the ground, which was covered in various hats, shoes and broken musical instruments that perhaps had been trendy and fashionable once, but all who would have considered them so would have been long since washed away before the cataclysm.
No, it was his own fault when the aging woman there, clad in garments more stained and tested by time than she was, saw him pick up a large hat, and accosted him with a cracked voice.
"I have it on very good, very honest, very reliable knowledge that this hat, this hat right there, was once owned and proudly worn by an Allagan minstrel, as he performed for the lords of the Crystal Tower, many, many cycles ago. You want to stand out, like a bard? You want to be seen as a master of that craft? This hat will be your symbol, the announcement to the world that you have arrived, and no one need ever know otherwise!"
Nathan turned the hat over and over in his hand. He'd seen their like before, dozens of times. Fantastic and woefully exaggerated stories alike had filtered through the taverns ever since the exploration teams had reopened and accessed the Crystal Tower, sending descriptions and samples of ancient relics floating along in their wake. It seldom occured to most customers, eager as they were for the latest thing, even if that thing was older than their entire nation, that objects of real value as artifacts would have quickly been snatched up, stolen, acquired and appropriated almost immediately.
He'd seen this very design of hat all over the place in the last cycle, in fact: massive, fluffy, and with a faux feather so large and frilly that no living avian save for the fanciest queen of rocs could have grown it. Yet, for all that, It was about as unique as a single green pea in a bushel full of them - "The Hat of Amon" they all wanted to call it, and if perhaps that historical figure did exist, he, or even she, would have to have been one oddball individual. Of course, the bowed hawker in her slops was hoping desperately that he didn't know that.
"Love, this thing would have been the same garish nightmare then as it is now. I do love a good hat, but even a Roe-lass touched by Menphina herself would look a joke in it," he said. He continued to turn it over in his hand, idly watching the feather flutter in the induced breeze.
"Bah! What do you know of bards, you oversized barbarian? Maybe one day you'll meet a real one, and learn a thing or three like this lady has! You won't find a hat like that like anywhere else!" The aged woman shook her finger at him.
Perhaps she was right, for the chapeau did look twice as worn and used as most of the replicas he'd seen, but that made it worse, and not better. In fact... wait. A flash of crumpled brown caught his eye. Within the hat, he saw a piece of parchment sticking out, and though little of it was showing, he did catch a couple of markings - musical notes. He bit his lip to suppress the sudden interest that his face might be starting to show, and sighed, audibly, instead.
"All right, how much?" He said.
"Five hundred Gil!" The elderly woman stretched out a gnarled hand.
"Five... Byregot's Brass Balls, you're a nutter. One hundred."
"Three fifty, not one gil less!"
"Two hundred, and I won't steer the Brass Blades this way!"
"Two fifty, and you can take that tabor with it!" She pointed at a small, hip-worn drum lying next to several torn examples of Yellowjackets' hats.
"Done!"
One hand shake and exchange of gil later, he made his way quickly around the corner, to the alleyway behind the tavern, and began to pull at the parchment tucked into the hat's material. Old hats may be of questionable worth, but perhaps an old song... those could be very valuable indeed.
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."