"Oh, come now. Us warriors couldn't be too bad..."
The deep, hollowed voice came from none other than Scarface, the well-respected and admired True Warrior. The massive dark grey shape padded out from within the masked shadows, deciding it better to confront these cats head-on, seeing there was no detected threat. Also from a Maine Coon background, the long-haired tom towered over the injured slave, standing just as tall, if not taller, than the male also in the slave den.
Hmmm... seems we have yet another "tragity" from the harsh penalty of living in BloodClan. Oh well. Scarface could give to sh*ts about whatever pathetic, sniveling story that this she-cat had to offer. As the True Warrior deserved, his name consisted of the outward appearance he presented towards others. Four main scars ripped up the right side of his face, leaving jagged, scarlet lines. One overlapped the gouge mark, where his other canary yellow eye should have rested, leaving him blinded upon that side. Two of them danced other, creating a perminant expression; a mixture of a snarl and a wince was cemented upon his angular head, leaving others to guess in the circumstances in which he recieved it.
Yet, the other side of his face was perfectly natural. It revealed a trace of innocence amongst the long, feathered grey fur, laid upon a well-balanced and sculpted bone structure. Despite what he had become, Scarface was referred to as "handsome" by certain, flirtatious and prissy she-cats, whom he seemingly didn't have the time for. The cold canary iris, laying in a wait for it's partner, stood out upon the untouched part of Scarface's... well, face.
This curious gaze studied the injured cat that laid before his paws; one with eyes of the darkest scarlet pools, and with fur of the purest snow, not a single blemish apparent on her petite form. With a smirk forming upon his grizzled jaw, he suddenly realised that this "rogue" reminded him of BloodClan's honorable leader, Solarstar herself. Curious, oh curious so...
"Now, my dear. How did you end up with this sort of prediciment?" he inquired, deepened tone turning into a soft croon. It was so easy sometimes to let his mindset stray, giving false impressions to others as to whereabouts of his actual personality. One of harsh, unforgiving nature, seeking to ruin the lives of those in his chosing, and succeeding for the vast majority. As stated before, Scarface didn't care about how this she-cat came to be, but the camp was empty, as usual, and the tom had already gone hunting for the day. Plus, the sound of bickering and unsheathed claws upon cement aroused him from his nap, and he had happily come to investigate.