Black and grey fine line tattoo of the word Believer running into an ornate key, on a person's upper chest or shoulder area beside a white top strap.

Believer script and key on skin

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows the word Believer written in a cursive script, with its final letter joined to the bow of an ornate key. The key has a filigree, scrolled bow and a simple stepped bit at the other end. The linework is clean and dark, with the ink in solid black and the image is entirely greyscale.

Fine line Lettering Other Key Script Word

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The thaw came late to Harrowgate that year, and the well at the top field froze so hard that Mabry Cole had to break it with the back of an axe. Her father had gone to the market at Stennick and not come home, so the cows were hers to see to, and the hens, and the mangel clamp that the rats had been at. She did it all in the grey hours before light, with her breath going up in front of her like something she had lost.

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On the ninth morning a crow sat on the gatepost and would not leave. It had a brass button tied to its leg with red thread. Mabry thought that was a strange thing for a crow to carry, and she said so, and the crow looked at her the way the old sheep did when she was late with the hay.

She followed it. It flew low over the hedges and waited in the bare elm at the boundary stone, and beneath the stone, when she scraped away the frost with her boot, she found an iron box no bigger than a loaf. Inside was a key with a bow curled like a fern uncurling, and a scrap of paper with one word on it in her father's slanting hand: Believer. She had never known him to write a word he did not mean.

She took the key home and pushed it into the lock of the cellar door, which no one had opened since her mother died. It turned as easily as butter. Below, in the dark, the potatoes were sprouting and the apples were still sweet, and her father sat on an upturned crate with his coat buttoned to the throat, grinning as though he had been waiting all winter for her to come down and ask the question.