Villain in "The Lion King"

Usage examples of scar.

His arm moved quickly, and I was peering down at his service revolver, just about level with my appendectomy scar.

Stripping away the last of his clothing, he examined the appendectomy scar on his lower right side.

A nude, ridiculous man with a blushing appendectomy scar appeared in the doorway suddenly and bellowed.

The man of the scarred shoulder was staring at her strangely, as though astounded that she had come, though she had visited the Beng settlement many times before.

Six of them toppled immediately: masses of twitching, disorganized, heterogeneous matter that ruined the floor wherever they fell, warping and buckling it with blitter scars.

An acre of gritty soil lacking the usual perimeter fence, the surface scarred and blotched with weed.

The stallions slammed together, the blunted axehead smashed against the scarred blue breastplate.

I heard a short, sharp cry behind me, a fall, and turning saw an awful face rushing upon me,--not human, not animal, but hellish, brown, seamed with red branching scars, red drops starting out upon it, and the lidless eyes ablaze.

A straight sword by his side and a painted long-bow jutting over his shoulder proclaimed his profession, while his scarred brigandine of chain-mail and his dinted steel cap showed that he was no holiday soldier, but one who was even now fresh from the wars.

David Silver was a plump young man with a pink scrubbed complexion, gold-rimmed pince-nez and his hair glossy with brilliantine and parted down the centre so that his scalp gleamed in the division like the scar of a sword cut He deferred courteously to his Uncle Aaron, and went to pains to make certain that both his guests were comfortable, that their chairs were arranged with the light from the windows falling from behind and that each of them had an ashtray beside him and a cup of tea in his hand.

He wore a sun-bleached and battered brimmed hat, a gray work shirt and blue jeans tucked into scarred work boots that had never seen an honest day of rest.

Ryessman, the Burgomaster, was six feet two inches tall, a white-haired ex-cavalry officer with a duelling scar on his forehead.

They were escorted by a gigantic man, almost black, with a zigzag scar across the left side of his face, who wore a shining brown burnous over a grey woollen jacket.

There was no hint of the deep-webbed scars that lined his back beneath the homespun cloak, but I knew them well.

Merritt let the homespun curtain fall across the depressing sight and paced back to his chair, where papers were scattered on the scarred table.