“Evening, Squirrel,” she said, hands well away from the hilt of her rapier (but near enough for a lightning draw if necessary). “Out for a walk, maybe?”
Simon Beaupre-or “Squirrel,” to most people in the Guild or the Guard-very nearly toppled over in a tangle of long, gangly limbs and equally long, black hair. A lengthy stiletto, essentially a prepubescent rapier, was halfway from its sheath before he recognized the phantasm that had just dropped in on them.
“Gods and demons, Widdershins!” He brushed the dangling hair away from a youthful, narrow face and glared as menacingly as he could (which wasn't very). “Are you trying to get yourself stabbed to death?” The other miscreants with him-all roughly his age, but of a wide variety of builds and miens-grumbled their agreement and sheathed their weapons as well, all pretending that their hearts weren't beating so hard as to bruise the insides of their chests.
“If I were,” Widdershins said primly, “I'd have thrown myself at people who were actually, you know, dangerous. What are you doing here, Squirrel? Little boys should be in bed by now.”
The various “little boys”-several of whom were actually older than Widdershins, and none of whom were more than a couple of years younger-glowered at her once more.
All but Simon himself, who, having now recovered his breath, allowed his attentions to roam, as they so often did when the two of them met, everywhere but Widdershins's face. She repressed a brief shudder and wished she could take the time to go scrub herself bloody in a hot bath; she swore his gaze left a trail of slime across her skin.