No, Emilie was well aware of her own strengths and weaknesses. She may have been tall for a female, but the wash use and lack of consistent meals had made her far more slender than she needed to be. Still, it would have been a grave, grave mistake for the Hound to assume she wasn't strong. What she lacked in brute force she more than made up for with quickness and sheer ferocity. Hell, the last fight she landed herself in, the guy had knocked aside her weapon and, instead, she buried her teeth into his jugular and ripped until he choked on his own blood.
When she finally stopped circling, her knuckled hand was curled tightly at her side, ready to strike, and the holster that held the bowie knife was undone. She didn't yet take the knife out; she still wasn't sure if she wanted to gut this mother fucker or just play with him a little bit. She supposed that all depended on him, didn't it?
"Maybe I just wanted to talk. Gets a little lonely down there."
And then it happened.
All at once, her smile turned into a snarl and she was moving on quick feet. For someone so fucked up on wash, her movements were surprisingly graceful and efficient, a well oiled machine of death and destruction. Emilie faked a right hook and, instead, pulled her weight at the last second and arched her left hand, the one with the knuckles, across the broad angle of his jawline with a vicious cackle.