Riful's already applauded adequately, at least in her own personal estimation. She claps her hands together once more, claps them, and grins, taking a few steps forward--quickly but not with haste. Her movements are still a little girl's, as opposed to a predator's, but she may be cornering him nonetheless, and after a few more she is standing in front of him.

"Hello," she says, hands still knit together. "That was a very interesting story."

She has to tilt her chin up to speak to him face-to-face (especially given the crate); it would be irritating if the power balanced wasn't set so staggeringly against him. Truth be told, Riful actually has no idea who the man is, but the vague sense of familiarity--and the soft glow of capability that always identifies imPorts--are more than enough to make him worth further observation.

"Did you write it yourself?"