'Quin looked around curiously, his hands shoved deep in the denim pockets of his jeans. He was uncertain where he was, and less so about how he'd gotten there, but nothing seemed dangerous or threatening; quite the contrary. The tents surrounding him were bright and welcoming, even with little more than starshine and moonlight to illuminate them. Fog roiled just at his ankles, and he stepped carefully on the worn dirt path in front of him. He glanced left and right as he ambled down the midway, and stopped in front of a faded wooden sign. Simple black letters proclaimed this the tent of Madame Zoya.<br/><br/>'Hm. Fortune teller, eh? I wonder...' 'Quin checked his pockets and found them empty, save for a few coins in a back pocket. A night breeze whistled through the carnival, and he shivered a little in his thin black T-shirt. 'Well, if only to get out of the wind a minute...'<br/><br/>He stepped inside, ducking under the draping front curtain, and spied the tent's owner near the back, shrouded in darkness. As he approached the empty chair, a cobweb caught in his dark, shaggy hair, and he ran a hand through his locks to clear it free. Was it his imagination, or were the shadows growing deeper? He shrugged recklessly and placed a hand on the back of the chair. His voice was low and rough as he spoke.<br/><br/>"...Evening, Madame. So, how much for a fortune?"