Tattoos, what a concept. That insinuated a blank canvas of sorts, someone without scars mapping the expanse of their skin, sporadic imperfections that told a story of each battle, each connection of weapon to flesh that proved they were strong enough to live another day. Not so say that he had never CONSIDERED the idea, but one of the only places on his body that was bare enough to host inked markings was his back, taut and untouched, a testament to his honor as a swordsman. ( A wound on the back is a swordsman’s shame. ) Law, a man who wielded a similar cold steel in his hands, someone who UNDERSTOOD the blade and the code that came with it -- now the same man watching him for a reaction, gauging his willingness with a sort of perceived ability to see past Zoro’s usual steely facade. Nearly enough to cause him to shudder involuntarily.
“Both,” not the answer the heart pirate was looking for, he was sure, but uttered nonetheless. Zoro’s frame shifted, fingers tracing the curve of the muscle on his lower arm as if feeling for an image that wasn’t there. “If you could find somewhere on my body that hasn’t been mauled, I don’t see why not.” A smirk to emphasize he was JOKING, for the most part, though the truth hidden in the statement wasn’t exactly a secret.