It surprised Emilie that he didn't follow her as she circled him. He seemed like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a fight, one that had his fair share of him, and yet he was revealing his back as though he didn't care she was carrying a knife that had the power to sever his spinal cord in one go. For some, this might have made them underestimate the Hound. For Emilie, it only made her realize that perhaps she was dealing with someone who'd give her a run for her money, after all.
His crack about the Joker earns him a wide smile that, quite to perfectly honest, was downright terrifying. She was just so pale, her face so shadowed and sunken in, and her mouth was just a touch (more than a touch, really) too big for her features. Features that, once upon a time, had been beautiful and soft just like the girl they belonged to.
That girl was dead. She died the night she trusted the wrong friend.
"You're funny," she giggled, shifting her weight from one small foot to the other. "Tell us another joke, funny man."
Her fingers twitched toward the bowie knife. It wasn't the only weapon she had on her, of course. The knuckles of her left hand glimmered in the low lighting because of the brass knuckles she wore, and she had a straight razor tucked neatly into her back pocket. None of them were as obvious or big as the crowbar, but they could do just as much damage.