Everyone wondered about the legendary Scarface, you. Went all around when you joined years ago, a disfigured outlaw that brought pure terror. Frightened the rich and poor alike, the one thing that bring people together in a twisted way, all because of the scars on your skin, face and body. You had joined when you were very young, Dutch finding you out on the street at night sneaking around the dirty alleyways, even then you had those scars, it was disturbing to say the least. Despte the curiosity you never said a word about it, sometimes even got defensive when people asked you enough.

Truth was your own family had done it, that's why you had left. That night you bleed out on the ground in the comfort of your own home, somewhere considered safe compared to the rat filled streets that were swarmed with criminals come night. Once you saw your face, what they had done you left, you couldn't stay anymore. You already knew you would be an outcast, probably sent away to some asylum because of people's terror, only for you to bump into the one and only Dutch.

Was late at night at the camp, you sat by the fire under the stars breathing in the fresh air as the others all slept soundly in their bedrolls, tucked in tight for the night, only for you to here the grass squelch under shoes, then Arthur sat down next to you, chugging on his water from his flask, the moon shining off of the silver. He looked at you, his eyes softening slightly. He had wondered for a while now, nobody was around, this was his chance to ask, now that everyone was at rest maybe you would feel safer?

"Y'know, been wondern' a while about those scars on your face, everyone has."