((Surf Bum, how do I write a story about being a Surf Bum))
Jack Wolfe Prototype Super Tank, over 25 million in damage taken in the service of others
My 360 hates me and writes about it
Jack's X-Box's Blog
I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars. ---Og Mandino---
I'm super busy at work this week and won't be able to get to this, but I did write an eight-page comic featuring my character with Brandon McKinney and George Cox awhile back, so I'll just link that here.
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((Could always write bout some epic wave Jack caught, or perhaps how / when he learned to surf? I would read the hell out of that!))
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Originally Posted by DrJackWolfe
((Surf Bum, how do I write a story about being a Surf Bum))
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((This is amazing Bayani! I am hoping to slowly work my way up to comic book level I think the adventures of Lizzy and Seri need to be told...or perhaps not and lets say we did? Thanks for posting this. |
Originally Posted by Bayani
I'm super busy at work this week and won't be able to get to this, but I did write an eight-page comic featuring my character with Brandon McKinney and George Cox awhile back, so I'll just link that here.
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))
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Her heels clicked solidly on the wooden planks of the small docks that snaked between the ships docked in Port Oakes, her azure eyes, hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, watched her surroundings for any sign of trouble. The black trench coat flowed ut behind her, her black attire underneath seemed to absorb the sunlight that filtered through the cloud cover, and rain was on its way. Shoulder holsters, hidden underneath the tailored coat, held her twin desert eagles. Her red hair was loose and cascaded down to her shoulders freely. |
What is your characters chosen profession? |
She arrived at the unmarked door, innocuous in its appearance. Her mind was already stretching out as she started to turn the knob, sensing the number of minds hidden beyond it and, more importantly, their mood. This was the dangerous part, she was good, and with her mind powers she could sense problems before they arose, but she was still only one person. The door opened and she was framed in the doorway, back lit by the sunlight that was suddenly streaming into the darkened room. There were five men in the room, hardened men to whom the threat of death, was a daily part of their lives. Their eyes narrowed against the intrusion of sunlight, even though the cloud cover defused it.
"Gentlemen." The woman said simply in way of greeting.
Two of them just grunted the others remained silent. She came further into the room, her eyes already adjusted to its dimness, she saw three of the men seated at a small wooden table the other two standing behind it and a single chair remained open, apparently for her. She took the offered seat and leaned back slightly, keeping her hands free.
"Okay, we all know why we are here." She said, her own eyes flicking between each man, her telepathy also scanning the surface thoughts hoping to detect trouble before it began. "You all have the connections, I have the cash. We need a new supply line into Paragon City."
"Yeah, trouble is toots," the man sitting across from her said, he was dressed in a suit, but his jacket was thrown over the back of his chair, clearly displaying his shoulder holster. "I dont know you."
"We covered this on the phone Mr. Bartelli," she answered smoothly, "My names Winters, and I am your new pipeline into Paragon."
"How do I know you aint a cape?" he snarled back.
The woman with the red hair sighed. Known normally as Seer Taboo, the Mook across from her had good reason to wonder. Her mind stretched out, her telepathy reading his distrust, it was shared by his fellows, so she just planted a seed in his lieutenant, Michael Goodman. In his mind, she let him know that hed heard of Amanda Winters, she was a high roller in Paragon, worked with the Family, the Tsoo and some of the gangs in the city.
As if on queue, he leaned over and whispered in Mr. Bartellis ear.
"Ya know Mike, this information woulda be helpful earlier." He said, staring at Mike a frown on his face. "Didnt I ask if anyone knew this broad before?"
"Sorry boss, it just came ta me." Mike answered sheepishly. "Da red hair through me, Id heard she was a blonde."
Mr. Bartelli turned his attention back to the woman across from him, he couldnt see her eyes, hidden as they were behind the dark sunglasses. He didnt like that.
"I still dont trust you," he said in an accusatory tone, "Yer a little too convenient lady. Comin outta no where jus when our supply line needs to be reestablished.
The woman eyed the men arrayed against her. She needed to prove her ruthlessness, but she didnt want to kill anyone. She needed to do this the right way.
"Its up to your Mr. Bartelli," she said, her voice calm, "I just wanted to offer my services, if you dont want to take advantage of it, fine by me."
She started to get up, the two men behind those seated reached for their holstered weapons. She stopped and looked across at the three men.
"Do we have a problem?" she asked.
"We do if yer a cape toots yeah." Mr. Bartelli said smugly.
"Dont" she said simply.
"Dont what toots?" he replied grinning.
Faster then the men thought possible, the woman kicked the table over at them. The men sitting went spilling to the ground, the two behind them tried to get their weapons free. The woman was faster, she had her desert eagles in her hands, but it was her mind that issued forth. A wave of mental energy froze the men in place, each staring blankly ahead. She walked over slowly and stood above Mr. Bartelli, the others will not know how she got there. She held the men, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her head beginning to pound. She released them, but by then she was already standing above Mr. Bartelli, the muzzle of her desert eagle pointed directly at his forehead.
"Dont call me toots." She said, everyone was watching her. The two bodyguards had their own pistols out, but they knew they couldnt possibly stop her if she pulled the trigger.
"Now, gentlemen do I walk away?" she said, her other pistol pointed in the general direction of the two armed men. "Do you start looking for a new boss? Or do we sit down and work out a deal? I am game with whateve4r you boys want to do."
Meanwhile she was using her telepathy on Mr. Bartelli, nudging him towards the desire goal. Suddenly he started to laugh.
"I like this dame," he said suddenly, "Shes got moxy. Boys put yer pieces away and someone right the table. Weve got business to discuss."
The woman smiled, a little closer to finding the source of the Dyne that was coming into Paragon. It was a rough life, but a girl has to make a living.
((Okay hope everyone enjoys. Another tough one Lady C. But, that is Seer Taboos current job. As always, I really enjoyed yours. Very well written.
))
((really well done Mind, enjoyed the imagery of this and especially the "Dont call me toots" line. Keep it up folks!))
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Thanks. Just wanted to be "first" I guess. Brandon's become a really good friend of mine, so it was really cool to work with him on this, especially since he did the first volume of City of Heroes comics.|
Originally Posted by Lady_Cyrsei
((This is amazing Bayani! I am hoping to slowly work my way up to comic book level I think the adventures of Lizzy and Seri need to be told...or perhaps not and lets say we did? Thanks for posting this.
)) |
The PoV shift in your story is different, I like it. I like Mind Phobia's stuff too, but that's not fair since I'm a bit biased given Taboo's relationship with my character. =P
((Time for a little Shepard TIME and his theme being The Hate in Me by Godhead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXw3DK1FVds))
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St. Martial 02:00a.m.| What is your characters chosen profession? |
It was dark, the powering rain beat on the glass windows of his apartment's balcony. There sat, slouching in a comfort chair, Matt quiet and staring out at the dreary environment on the other end. Olive green eyes masked by a pair of black shades, a thick glass full of white chardonnay hung idly under the grip of his right hand's fingertips. Insomnia continued to do a number on his natural physique. For a man well built, ex-military, his body was undergoing the pressure of the recent series of events that haunted his sleepless nights. Growing a bit pale, Matt had no real joy left and didn't fancy going out to get a tan.
"I thought... ahhh, if I could just close my eyes." He sighed.
He couldn't sleep, images of a past blurred and distorted haunted his mind. These images begged him to remember but as the days passed, remembering felt that much harder. But his bed was occupied, some woman he didn't know. Some random brunette down in the bar who had one too many drinks herself to really take the time to really get to know him. As a man who delved in basic needs, he couldn't help himself. One thing always lead to another and in rethinking the whole night's events in playback, he couldn't help but sigh deeply. There was no going back to bed now.
Every time he tried to move on, he knew it was never the same. A shadow plagued his mind, a mere blurred image of what once was a living and breathing person coupled with a growth off to it's lower side. Matt let his eyes close, his brows twitched and winkled as he squinted in thought; a deep exhale exited his nostrils. There he could see himself surrounded by two shadow masses, like a family portrait but the images were all faded out or blank. Still, he could hear the voices perfectly clear.
'Honey? Your tossing.' The woman with no face said, a black mass seemingly hovering over him, the tilt of it's head indicated gentle intentions despite how daunting the lack of appearance was.
Matt opened his eyes and glared, a cool sensation ran down his arms and traveled along the surface of his hand until fully encompassing his hands and arms down to the finger tips. His flesh felt fully cut off but at the same time a thick and tight material masked the contour of his extremities. Looking over and down he could see that familiar metallic substance covering what used to be flesh and bone. It was monochrome at first but slowly began to gain structure, new colors fading into view; back and dull blue.
His train of thought was interrupted by a metallic voice, something he heard just the other day. "Target sighted: Wolf. Acquiring directive /: You are trespassing on private property. The punishment is death. Initiate Malta Operating Protocol." The moment he closed his eyes for but a brief second, his focus became illuminated by a bright shinning red light that swayed from side to side.
Lifting his left hand he rubbed lightly at his temples, the cold nano-tech metalloid substance brushes against his forehead; cool to the touch. 'I used to want them to forget about me...' Thought Matt, his breathing became heavy. Anxiety. His lungs felt tight, his breaths grew deeper feeling as though something was crushing his chest. Simultaneously the metallic liquid washed over him to his neck. The substance seemingly took a mind of it's own tightening, forming muscle groups and flexing with every thought of his mind. A faint red glow coursed through his abdomen, biceps, and forearms the cloth of his robe kept most of it well concealed. The glass in his hand was nearly empty, it cracked under the pressure of a growing grip until he regained conscious control and let the glass glow which proceeded to fall helplessly to the floor and spill what was left on a manila carpet.
Moments passed and suddenly the panic attack subsided. Matt's breathing slowed down and almost on mental-command the liquid material began to recede, restoring himself back to his natural state; at least as far as any eye could tell without disrobing him. Moving to clasp his hands together, Matt leaned forward in his seat and peered out. Beneath that stone cold gaze, there was precision; a waypoint somewhere out there in the urban streets of St. Martial's casino strip.
"There's no going back now." Matt said softly aloud to himself, figuring his 'guest' was passed out cold and especially this late. "I'll tare them apart... piece by effing piece." Lowering his voice, Matt drew out a soft growl of a breath. Lightning crackled, the windows even shook in response. They rattled but slowly came to a subtle stillness. The rain, thunder, and lightening all managed to set him at ease; it kept him focused and set the whirlwind raging in his head at ease. For some reason, the dark dreary and violent nights helped calm him.
((so basically he's a mercenary, sorry I'd type up more but worried I'd stretch it out too thin. Pretty self explanatory, he used to be married and was a father; but they died in an accident that was conducted by Malta on purpose... of course. His nano-tech suit is an odd setup of nanites that literally materialize on thought-command while wearing a seemingly unnoticeable breastplate that acts as the refinery. He dawns a complete cybernetic outfit which pretty much amplifies his athletics. Kind of like Crysis's nanosuit meeting T1000.
He lives a very secluded and hidden life, not the kind of guy to blabber on about his troubles in a public area. He's more likely to pass his stress off as something "business" related without going deep into detail.
And of course his "sleeping" habits... they're a result of psychological masochism, which I kind of made it up myself. Part of him knows he can't bring his wife and child back but he can't seem to "move on" so to speak. It causes conflict, and funny thing that about insomnia, it only happens when he heads to bed with someone. He can't sleep because he's uncomfortable knowing the "lucky" lady isn't his wife. Otherwise he'll sleep but of course suffers chronic flashbacks and memories in the form of nightmares.
So all blabbing aside, hope ya'll enjoyed.))
((I did, was a really interesting take on stress triggered anxiety attacks could feel every moment with him very sensory filled, so much so had to take a few deep breaths myself. Thanks for this. ))
((Thank you, doesn't help that I'm tired. I thought I was working on that for an hour or so and had more planned only to find out the post was rather small. Eh he's an interesting character though regardless... lot of emphasis on wolves because they're among my favorite animals and in them you can see just about every aspect of society. Meh maybe I'll have more of him later down the road in future Wednesdays ))
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"I work my hands to the bone all day,|
Originally Posted by Lady_Cyrsei
What is your characters chosen profession?
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Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
I earn that money so the rent gets paid.
Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
But then came the change on that fateful day,
Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
They told me they could see it from a mile 'way.
And aw, they said the fire burned.
And aw, they said the wheel still turned.
And aw, they told me I was spurned.
And yeah, I took my name and ran."
Perfectly in time with the temp of his song, Remington "Remmy" Stein's hammer hit a nail protruding from the steel framework of the building he sat atop. When the nail was done, he moved right and placed a new one. The sun beat down on him even in the cool autumn breeze, and sweat stained his forehead, chest and underarms. He'd been doing this for six months now, and the people of Paragon City knew him not only as the construction worker with a stunning country-western voice, but as Match Point, the fiery hero that kept the people of Steel Canyon safe.
"Remmy! 'Ey man, c'mon down here, we need a patch-up and the welder's on lunch," the foreman called up to him.
Remmy looked down from his perch and attached a steel cable to his safety harness. "Man, that Jackson's never 'round when ya need his happy backside, is he? Y'all hold tight, I'll be down in a Texas minute." With the grace of a falling brick, he tossed himself over the side and repelled down to the ground. "Alright boys, where're ya needin' me?"
"Over here, Remmy. This plate cracked."
"Alright, hold it for me." Remmy took off his right glove and started to snap his fingers. "C'mon darlin'. Light up." With a sudden spark and a whoosh that sounded not unlike a torch being lit, his palm began to spurt an ice-blue flame. He crouched down and began running his hand over the crack in the aforementioned metal plate. Sparks flew around his hand like flies from a confined space, but not a single burn mark touched his skin. "You fellas see the Steel Canyon Steelclads last night? Lost to the damn Cowboys!"
"Yeah, no kiddin' Rem. I think maybe we need to put a super on that team just so they can pass the ball further than ten yards."
"Ooh-wee, I hear that! Tell you what, you guys put in a word to Coach Jenkins and I'll play for 'em," Remmy said as he finished the weld. "There y'are. Now don't go breakin' it again, last thing I need is--"
His words were cut short as a loud metal snap rang out just over his head. He looked up, and was hit in the face by a flattened 45 caliber bullet.
"Ow, gad-dangit."
"Don't move, meat," said a voice across the construction fence. "This is Outcast territory." A sizzling noise followed as the outspoken Outcast Lead Scorcher walked through the chain link, turning it to molten metal. "You worthless pukes have been building this junk-pile for years. Now, we're here to undo your handiwork." The few lackeys behind him raised a few submachine guns and automatic rifles.
"... y'all are yankin' me, right?" Remmy stepped forward and wiped the sweat from his brow. "We sit out here'n work our tired hind-ends off all dang day, and you come over here and mouth off like a bunch of top crop villains. Why don't you do me a favor, y'orange skinned git," he said as he started walking towards the leader. "Why don't you go ahead and mosey on outta here? You probably got s'more important bee-ess on yer hands, like puttin' cats in trees and pissin' in people's toilet tanks. N'fact, I'm sure I caught one of you jokers last week tryin' to draw on my boss' car--"
His sentence was cut short by a hail of gunfire.
The sound of small metal pellets hitting the ground followed shortly after.
"Y'all should know that's a mighty good way to get me mad," Remmy said, his right hand humming loudly with what sounded like stored kinetic energy. Another wave of gunfire, another clattering of pellets. But now the humming was louder. "Y'all are 'bout as sharp as baseballs. See, now I've got enough of this here k'netic energy to wallop one of you real good, and don't forget who I am."
"Who the hell are you," the leader roared, his hands igniting with searing fire. He found out shortly as Remmy's fist rammed into the poor sap's face and sent him flying across the street.
"Smart thugs know I'm Match Point. Dumb ones, well, they find out real quick."
The Outcasts turned to flee, and were stopped by a literal wall of fire.
"Hey, Mickey, bring me that jackhammer o'er there, I need to teach these gents a quick lesson in interruptin' my work site," Remmy called behind him with a grin. The remaining thugs didn't need to hear it twice, taking the risk and running through the wall of fire only to slam groins-first into a police vehicle at the nearby red light.
"You got some live ones, sheriff!" Remmy laughed, the fire subsiding as he turned back and started his climb back up to his perch. "Y'all throw that orange-skinned jackass wherever, if you find where his sorry hide landed."
He plopped himself back on his girder, and started singing again.
"I ain't a fan of playin' games,
Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
I never take chances all the same,
Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
I do what I can to make a name,
Hey... hey... yeah, hey.
But I'm here for work and not for fame.
And I said yeah, my fire lights the sky!
And I said yeah-heah, that ain't a lie!
And I said whoa, I don't choose my fights,
I say yeah, took my name and ran."
((Not my best writing... but I wanted to. Match Point, 27 Fire/Kin Controller.
His story is cut and dry. He worked for Kirk Cage and was a Scrapyarder for five years until his powers manifested in a mineshaft with a natural gas line and blew up 40 of his friends. Cage had him deported and Paragon took him in. He's currently trying to get the Paragon City government to take notice of Kirk Cage and the Consortium so they can possibly send aid.))
My guides:Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Soul Mastery, Illusion Control/Kinetics/Primal Forces Mastery, Electric Armor
"Dark Armor is a complete waste as a tanking set."
Interesting. Another character involved in the construction industry.
((this is the first mine-worker character I've seen for this game, very interesting a great mix of style and very well written. Thanks for this ))
(writer's note: Meet Arithon "Ari" Kerson- my one sole male character in this game)
He sat at the piano, humming.
It was a quiet day, no business meetings, no patrols, not even a class to teach at Paragon Juniors Supers Academy.
He picked out the notes on the keys, first the bare bones, the bare chords..
Arithon coaxed the notes into a melody, stopping here and there to write a notation on the notebook in front of him. Sometimes, he'd hum a few notes, then play them, then if it worked, write them down...
Outside the sun was shining, and the garden beyond the french doors was in full fall foliage, more leaves then flowers..
"And what of the love we never had, that we thought would never end?" had been written in a margin, near the melody itself.
Ari frowned. He wasn't sure of that lyric, but it refused to be evicted from his head. It was really annoying. He stuck a post it on that page with the note "Call Jimi..."
He went back to the melody. He really didn't need to write the notes-A friend had created a system for him that automatically notated the melody by sound. However, Ari Kerson clung stubbornly to his handwritten notes, as disorganized as they appeared to be. It was just the way he worked, and to him the disorganization was actually organized, just in his way.
By midafternoon, he was putting down the final notes to the melody, and played it all the way through a few times, changing a note here and there to make it flow better...and finally...it was done..
He let the final chord hum away just in time...as his cell phone started to buzz on his piano. (Ari tended to leave it on vibrate when he was composing.).
He picked it up.."Right, what's up? What happened ?" Arithon ran a hand through his shaggy dark brown hair..."how many kids were kidnapped? Right. Call Ryou, Connery, gonna need her help on this one.."
He stood, sighing a moment as he looked down on the piano, before he started for the bookcase, which slide aside, even as he turned his walk into a run..."Paladin, come forth!"
The Mystik Paladin was needed again...but Arithon's mistress waited patiently for him, in the notebook left carelessly on the piano..
(Yes, Arithon Kerson is a musician/songwriter at heart...even though he's a philanthropist these days...Music was his original chosen profession. As for the lyric snippet that appears in this story..I just snagged it off the top of my head. Most nonsensical thing I can think of.)
(I may expand on this in the future, maybe make it part of a story. Right now, though, I am tired and frazzled, and it's been One Of Those Days. Hope you understand.)
Global is @Mellissandria
I don't have that much art, but I do write stories and I do collect art on
my DA account
*waits for this week's prompt!*
/me sighs in resignation and crouches down in the line to wait for the 11/3/10 RP prompt...
Global is @Mellissandria
I don't have that much art, but I do write stories and I do collect art on
my DA account
This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
What is your characters chosen profession?
((The next series of stories for now will be about another character of mine, a Vigilante whom goes by the name of Captain Sophie Storm and Farsighter respectably, I hope everyone enjoys it!))
Dockside, Port Oaks, the Rogue Isles.
It was a miserably rainy night in the sprawling portion of town forever called Dockside by its inhabitants. The shadow of Fort Hades loomed close and only those whom where up to no good would have ever considered coming out in any weather to this particular part of town. As you slog your way through the streets you see before you the stone faced building just ahead with its darkened windows and the dark alley leading to the real doorway guarded only by one man, dead and tacked to the wall by his own blade.
As you approach the door, the eyes of the dead man follow you, or seem to, and as your hand balls into a tight fist to knock three times upon the door the corpses mouth slowly opens and beginning to moan the dead mans hand reaches out for you. Thankful you are when the gorilla of a man, sour faced with a sloping protruding forehead lets you in out of the cold, cold rain and the garish and bloody night.
You had come to this place in search of this fabled gunfighter, the merciless witch and gunslinger whom you where told managed terrible feats of stunning accuracy and practiced a form of necromancy so barbarous as to make any assassination she decided to take a sure bet but who’s demand for payment was told to come with a horrific cost. No mark she took would remain alive this was fact most assuredly given and no one better at obtaining and coercing information from any person living or dead. All would sing and die like the ill fated zombified canary that was rumored she kept with her at her side.
The white haired stranger sat with her back to the wall, her head was bowed a black duster of a hat was pulled low, where above a pair of dark government issue sunglasses a pair of storm grey eyes arrest you with their vivid ferocity. She leans forward when you approach taking her booted heels from off the table directly before her. As you take your seat in front of her, the bright yellow little bird hops toward you which had but a moment ago been eating from out of her hand. Now it stands on the table before you blinking at you with beady eyes, its beak stained with blood. The creature begins to warble and then to sing a melancholy song stopping only when she holds up a hand for silence when you begin to ask her name.
Her voice is soft and sibilant like the sound silk makes when it passes over leather, there was an odd lilt to her words which bespoke a place far away and the dark tan told of foreign lands where the sun was a harsh glare and not of this stormy island place. There was a slow fluidity to her limbs each placed with a deliberate grace like the most dangerous snake or skilled dancer. She took off her hat and running a small hand through ghostly white hair she sets her hat upon the table between you and slinging a leather clad arm across the back of her chair she studies you with cool deliberation.
You tell her of your goal, the target which you seek, her gaze remains impassively calm. She reaches out to the small silver lighter and the matching cigarette case which is set to one side on the table before her, between the canary to her left and the wide brimmed hat to her right. She flips the case open and revealing a row of hand rolled sweet smelling cheroot cigarillo’s the scent of rich tobacco, sandalwood and clove thick and cloying to ones senses. She snaps the case shut after offering you one, a polite gesture for one who seems so removed from all things civilized. She shrugs as you decline or leaning forward she holds the small lighter before you setting the end of your cigarillo alight.
She hears you out, listening to your long tale, your plight, your self deluded reasoning for seeking her out to kill a man. She listens with keen observation and interest to the details which you pour forth all in hopes of finding the one you seek. You can not help wondering why you told her so much, opening up to this stranger like she was a long trusted friend or loved one.
Could it be she had soft and kindly face, beautiful in a Mediterranean way really? Was it the expression of her lips which seemed always smiling or the earnestness in her wintery eyes which showed that she was truly listening? No none of these things where right, you could almost place your finger upon it the reason for your confessions, and there it sat seemingly harmless in her hand, the cigarette case showed your reflection in its polished face. The simple spell she had woven had entranced you, the one who sat before her loosening your tongue to show your real self and motivation the real reflection of the one whose image was caught in its gleaming silver surface.
When she asks if you are aware of the price of her services, you hesitate here, still caught in the knowledge of her simple though effective witch craft. She gives you a soft charming throaty laugh and a cocky smile, one that adds a devilish gleam to her silver eyes. She leans forward intimately before you her leather jacket opening to give you a most interesting sight. In several holsters strapped about her body are various instruments, guns of all makes and models, knives, all deadly shapes and sizes, a stun baton, three small black thin packages, two bandolier’s filled with strangely carved bullets and nestled neatly between her breasts having fallen free from her simple black T-shirt a silver snowflake medallion at its center a sapphire as blue as morning skies.
Her voice startles you, she catches you staring, the silvery strands of her hair gleaming in the pale light of the bar. You feel you are alone here only the two of you, your senses dulled lulled by her soft words spoken for only your ears to hear them. “My payment is simple beyond the sum you discussed with my agent I demand payment in spirit as well as in blood. The one whom you seek may be used in payment or another may be substituted but know this I will have my due even if it is your blood and your soul which I keep. Do you agree?”
You give an almost imperceptible nod and she leans back seemingly pleased.