The short man, more interested in gawking at the curiosities around than looking at Madam Zoya's cards, was clearly not expecting such questions. Startled, he blinked slowly, opened his mouth, closed it and opened again.<br/><br/>"Ma'a...dam, see, I'm just yer ordinary little man, trying to make ends meet. All this magic thingamajig," Bob waves his right hand in the air, casually moving the left one over the table - ever so slowly, as if consumed in thought. "it's all bit way o'er my tiny head, eh? But there's this bloke, right, a really talented kid from my ban... I mean, yeah, band, like musical one, right?" - ever so slowly, the hand moves closer to what seems to be a tiny pouch on the table. "The brewer. And he sells those mean elixirs and wands and all that, too. Gets all the wee ladies, this guy does, right?"<br/><br/>Bob sighs. After a short pause, he continues. "And I says, I says, "hey lad, now why don't you share some of yer shinies with poor ol' Bob?", yeah? And he says, he says, "Bob, you old cutter, shoulda go straight to Madam Zoya, she got all the fortune ye need," and I says, "why, lad, 'tis a good thing I am a fan of this abracadabra thing, right?"<br/><br/>The man casually looks up and realises the fortune teller is not distracted by his gestures nor by words. He shudders and removes the hand from the table, scratching his head instead.<br/><br/>"Yeah, hheheh. A good lad, he is. So, uh, what do those lil' buggers say, then, Madam?"