Flash design of a black dragon with a red eye, coiling body, grey feathered wing shapes and two red orbs, shown without a body placement.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black dragon with grey wings design

Mixed · Flash

A black dragon with a red eye coils vertically through the centre of the design, with its body twisting around two glossy red orbs. Behind it sit large grey wing shapes with ragged, feathered edges, rendered with smooth grey shading and bold black outlines. The artwork is a standalone drawing on a white background, with the dragon and wings filling a tall, symmetrical composition.

Dragon Wing Serpent

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the pair of you, and mind the draught through the broken arch. You want the rest of it or not? Right. Up on the crag above Harrowmere there was a castle with no roof left, only a stair climbing into the rain, and in its chapel lived a dragon called Sorrel-Dusk, black as a wet kettle. He had coiled himself round two red glass lamps the old lords once hung in the nave. Nobody remembered why the lamps were red. The dragon remembered. He kept them warm.

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One winter a girl named Marit Holloway climbed that stair, sent by her mother to fetch the salt tithe the lords still owed the village, and she found the dragon awake. He did not eat her. He looked at her with the one eye that still burned, and said, 'The lamps are going out. Another cold every night.'

Marit, being sensible, asked what that had to do with her. The dragon unwound a loop of himself, slow as a cart coming down a hill, and showed her that the orbs had cracks running through them like frozen rivers. 'Lamp-oil from the village wells,' he said. 'Your grandmother's people poured it. When they stopped, the light stopped.'

So Marit went down the crag with her apron full of wicks and came back every evening for a month, carrying oil in a brass jug that slopped on the stair. By the last night the chapel stone had ten new seams of gold in it and the orbs glowed like coals in a grate. She asked him why he had never simply asked the village for help. He laughed, a sound like a door in the wind. 'Dragons are not asked. We are remembered, and that is harder.'