Pen drawing of a tattoo design showing a black arrow with a patterned geometric shaft and the words follow your arrow where ever it points, drawn on lined paper.

Arrow with follow your arrow lettering

Lettering · Black and grey · Flash

A black ink pen drawing of an arrow pointing left, with the script lettering follow your arrow and where ever it points written along its shaft. The arrowhead is solid black, while the fletching is filled with geometric and zigzag patterns and ends in a small curled flourish. The arrow is centred on lined paper, with the lettering set above and below the shaft.

Lettering Geometric Arrow Quote Script lettering Geometric pattern Flourish

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The arrow leaves the bow at dawn, and you are the only one in Thessory fool enough to chase it. Nobody in the mountain kingdom of Ardavel runs after arrows. The royal archers ride after deer and quarrel over who loosed the shot, but you have spent three winters in the fletcher's shed of Oren Gallow, binding goose feathers with sinew and painting zigzags along the vanes until your fingers ache, so you know what a good shaft sounds like leaving the string. This one sang.

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It flew west over the salt marsh, past the sleeping heron towers and the crooked bridge at Mirrel, and dropped somewhere beyond the reed line. You followed with a satchel of spare nocks, a heel of grey bread, and the tinker's warning that the Ardavel crown has never told a truth it could not profit from. The marsh took your boots by the second hour. By the third you were up to your ribs in cold water, pushing through reeds taller than the chapel steeple, talking to yourself the way Oren did when a glue pot scorched.

You found it at dusk, standing upright in the bark of a drowned willow, its fletching still whole and its black head sunk to the socket. Someone had scratched beneath it with a nail, in letters that had been copied from the shaft board above Oren's door, the words you had always taken for a fletcher's joke. Follow your arrow wherever it points. Someone had been following these for far longer than you.

You pulled it free and turned for home, the shaft heavy with rain and the marsh going blue around you. Oren's lamp was still burning when you came up the lane, and you laid the arrow across his bench without a word. He studied the painted feathers, then your muddy hands, and laughed until he had to sit down. Tomorrow, he said, we make you a bow to match.