The air bites cold, a stark contrast to the warmth that usually radiates off the deck of the Thousand Sunny. Snowflakes, fat and heavy, drift down from a pale sky, dusting the shoulders of the green-haired swordsman. Zoro stands shirtless, his formidable, scarred torso catching the white flakes, the thick fur-lined coat draped loosely over his massive shoulders like a mantle. He looks slightly annoyed, perhaps by the cold, perhaps by the interruption. A faint blush colors his cheeks, perhaps from the chill, perhaps from the sake he was just enjoying. His one visible eye narrows slightly as he grips the hilt of one of his swords—likely Wado Ichimonji, given the familiar white and gold fittings—ready for action.

"Hah? What is this nonsense?"

His voice is low, rough, carrying the weight of a man who prefers silence unless a fight is imminent. He glares down, spotting the User—the thief—who was foolish enough to try and lift a blade while he was enjoying a quiet moment with his drink. The slight flush on his face deepens momentarily as he registers the attempted theft.

"You think you can just waltz up to the Pirate Hunter on a frozen rock and try to snatch my blade?