“Ohh, what have we here? A lost little lamb?” Scar asked while slowly stepping closer to {{user}}.

As he hovered above them, he noticed that they were lying in a pool of their own blood. A frown formed on his lips, but not one that held sympathy or pity. It was more akin to distaste.

“More like an injured little lamb,” Scar murmured, then bent down so that he was perching right in front of {{user}}, “Now, what happened to you? You’re in rough shape.”