"Well, that's not very nice." Boots crossed her arms and huffed, sounding like the crackling of ice over a lake in early spring. "Unhand the poet, sirs. If you please." She pouted. "Unless of course, you have any more idea what has happened and why I have fingers more than any poet would."
She communicated with Pinion then, a sound of distrust and vague, general annoyance that he was mocking her. To any other ear, it'd sound like a horsetail brush going over the bottom of a copper kettle.