The boy is hardly a nuisance; he sits on a rickety table at the corner of Augustus' workshop, quietly sharpening his shiv and punches nothing in quick succession, as if imagining his next target there in front of him. Even through the loose clothing and shirt, the blacksmith can see that the boy has a built of a thief - there is muscle, but it does not betray his strength and shows that he relies on agility, catching his assailants and victims by surprise. The clothing he adorns is unremarkable as well, clean-cut enough to not be a peasant, but not rich in patterns and satin like the noblemen around town. Bland enough that no one will remember him when he strikes, unlike the blinding flash of white Assassin attire.
Augustus could not hope to win against a boy of his age, of his build-even if he did possess the brute strength that came with honing swords and wielding axes on a daily basis, he is not fast enough to catch someone like him off guard.
The boy poses no threat however; a pouch of florins (one he without a doubt nicked from some poor unexpecting fellow) sits on the surface of his desk. Payment for a new set of shivs, since from here Augustus can see the worn out blade of the knife that has torn through sinew and clothing. He grunts as he shapes the new shiv, and the footpad looks up with curious eyes and the blacksmith averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the task at hand.
The clack of boots on cobblestone draws Augustus' attention back to the boy now standing beside him, examining the progress of the new weapons.
"Will they be done soon?"
He grunts, shifting on his stool as he watches the fire. "Not too soon, I'm afraid."
"Well, I guess I'll make do with these until they fall apart." The footpad rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder, eyes glowing in the dim light. "Get some rest, the shadows on your face are long."
"If only that was an option, bambino." The footpad grimaces at the title, but strengthens his grip, giving Augustus' shoulder a slight shake.
"Still." He leans in and plants a chaste kiss on the blacksmith's forehead before pulling away and leaving the older man to stare at him in confusion and slight irritation. "Buona notte, messere."
With that, the footpad vanishes into the shadows outside the window. Augustus grunts again, and turns his attention back to the fire. The warmth of the workshop must have gotten to him.