.V.

A Warlord in the East Blue was very much akin to finding a Sea King in a frog pond. So ludicrous, so outrageous in terms of the pecking order of the world that it might even be too hard for the frogs— no, tadpoles, even— to even comprehend that the Sea King is there at all, so massive it might be. Even if the Sea King threatens to squash the tadpoles in their entirety if it so twitches a muscle.

Conversely, the tadpoles entirely notice the large and unexpected guest crowding into their pond, but fail to recognize the Sea King for what it is given that a frog pond is very far away from the open ocean that is the Sea King's rightful home— and simply regard this guest a large and interesting curiosity merely passing by.

Perhaps he is putting too much thought into this frog analogy, Mihawk thinks, as he sets foot onto the sole dock of Windmill Village. He leaves his small ship in the care of two dock workers who are open in their gawking, gesturing and whispering to each other as they lash the ship to berth; Yoru seems to deter them from becoming too curious for their own good.

The rest of the village is much the same, as all the villagers look on with open curiosity at this stranger in their midst, without a shred of recognition in their eyes. It's both a novelty, and… disconcerting. Vexing, even, and several folk avert their eyes from his glowering and keep their distance. Now that Mihawk is here, he does not like how restless he already feels—He has no desire to approach a villager to ask inane questions when he does not even know what he's looking for. Somehow, he'd expected more, and not… this. A tiny, unprotected village that doesn't even have paved roads, let alone anyone who might know the sharp side of a blade from the dull one.

Nevertheless Mihawk doesn't let his guard down— he's lived too long to start so now— and therefore he notices instantly the gaze of one man who does look at him with something other than badly disguised curiosity. No, this one looks at him with fear. Terror, even, shaking down to his boots… as he approaches the warlord unbidden and unasked. Some steel in him, then. Nearby village folk notice his manner and the air changes somewhat to one of unease.

"We are simple folk here," are the first words from the old man's mouth— his teeth are chattering something fierce, but he manages all the same. "And if it's all the same I ask that you cause no trouble for us, sir Warlord."

Ah. So he does recognize something of him. Mihawk's evaluation of him raises a notch, but only just. He says nothing.

"…is there some reason you've docked in Windmill Village, today?" says the old man— some important figure here? The mayor, perhaps? As the seconds stretch and he sweats more rapidly in Mihawk's silence.

"…Passing curiosity," Mihawk says, which is the truth, and all he's willing to divulge. It doesn't make the old man very happy, wringing his hands tightly together.

"Well, if there's something I can do," he tries again, "We don't have much, but if it's in our power I'll gladly send for whatever you're in need of." So you can get the hell out of the village, his real sentiments go unsaid.

Mihawk tilted his head.

"A drink," he says, because he definitely needs one. The old man blanches, but is not much of a position to refuse him.

And thus he's reluctantly guided to Partys Bar— the sign outside is missing punctuation, how quaint— and the few patrons inside go silent as he sweeps through the door. Again, it isn't much, some small town bar with no doubt a small town selection, but unlike the rest of this miserable experience, there is something of worth here, as the female bartender and apparent owner quietly gasps and almost drops the glass she's cleaning on the floor.

She's not curious like the rest of her fellows . She's fearful, but not like the old mayor. She recognizes him— not as a warlord. There's familiarity in her eyes. And dawning realization, before she ducks her head and avoids his piercing gaze.

He takes a seat directly at the counter.

"…Is there something I can do for you?" her voice is light, deceptively calm as she looks up and meets his eye without shying away, despite her fear just moments before. Here is another person that might be worthy of a shred of thought. Her hands are shaking faintly.

"More than you might care to, I suspect," Mihawk says— he rests a hand on the counter, casual and non-threatening, but she flinches all the same.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she counters— oh but she does, she does, as she stares into his eyes and tries to hide that she knows them, knows the color and what that color means, so he simply says nothing and stares her down until her nerve slowly crumbles beneath the piercing eye of the hawk, and still she says nothing until finally— at long last, a test of patience for them both—

"Why are you here?" her voice is brittle. She sets down her glass and abandons the pretense of simple barmaid, transforming into… something else. Mihawk says nothing. Finds that her question is something he has no answer for. The silence stretches, and she tries again, something different but just as searching. "Why after all this time?"

"Curiosity," he says slowly, repeating his earlier words and she doesn't seem to like the answer.

"That's it?" There's a line between her brow, and a sharp increase in volume. "Do you think that's good enough a reason? No word, just appearing out of the blue— Why? Why now? What are you hoping for?"

"I don't know."

The answer is as surprising to her as it is to him. She settles down, only just. A few villagers across the room, present from the beginning, are warily looking on.

"This guy bothering you, Makino?" One says, putting up a show of bravado. The barmaid— Makino— hesitates, chews her lip and clearly things about it (not that any puny villager could throw him out of a bar) but comes to a decision. It's not what Mihawk expects.

"No, but thanks, guys," she says, with a smile for their benefit. "I've got this. He's just a little lost, that's all."

Oh, that stings; this woman is no swordswoman, but her tongue cuts sharply as any blade might. She turns back to him, regarding him quietly as the other patrons go back to their drinks, muttering and shooting looks at Mihawk's back.

"Did you come to take him away?" she asks, marking a turning point in the conversation that she finally refers to… that.

This answer is easy. "Absolutely not."

Makino huffs, but thinks. Leans forward into both elbows, staring squarely at him across the bar.

"Then I'll ask you again. What are you hoping to get out of this?"

He owes no answer to some strange woman in a bar who knows more things than she should and is not afraid to dangle this knowledge over his head, apparently, but… it's been so long. For years this itch has turned into a burning curiosity that refuses to leave him in peace, and perhaps had not done so since the day that woman left his life and with that tiny, ridiculous bundle in her arms—

He opens his mouth to say… something to that effect, but not quite, but not at all, and it's all taken out of his hands anyway when the door to the bar bangs open and a tiny, black haired, absolutely mud-covered child barges in and goes right to the bar, triumphantly waving a fist over his head.

"Makino!" he says, loud and unafraid, "Makino, look! I was at th' creek but I slipped onna rock and bashed my toof out!"

Sure enough he's holding a bloody tooth in his hand as he wiggles onto a bar stool and smears mud all over the counter.

"Oh, Luffy, please, now's not the time—" Makino tries to salvage the situation, frantically looking back and forth between two separate problems as Mihawk recoils to avoid getting mud splattered on his sleeve, and the motion catches the attention of the small child who whips his head around and finally notices the stranger he's climbed right up next to. His eyes bulge as he takes it all in, lingering on the long coat, the hat, and the—

"Whoah," he gasps, "Mister, you've gotta really cool sword! Are you a pirate?"

Ah, Mihawk thinks, looking down at a child covered head to toe in mud, all the more in contrast with his wide, eager, shining yellow eyes— the very same shade he's seen before, in mirrors, and reflected in the frightened eyes of terrified foes just moments from being vanquished.

Too distinctive indeed.

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In which Makino would absolutely throw down with a warlord if the situation called for it; (i fiddled around so much with this that I forgot about it whoops i'm still probably going to come back and fiddle with this blblblbl)