Black and grey realism tattoo on an upper arm showing a chief in a feathered headdress above a wolf's head, with a howling wolf silhouetted against a moon.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Chief portrait and wolf on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of a man in a feathered headdress sits above a detailed wolf head, with a howling wolf silhouetted against a full moon at the upper left. The work uses smooth black and grey shading with fine hair-like detail in the feathers and fur. The composition fills the upper arm and shoulder, with the figures stacked vertically and the moon scene fading into the skin at the top.

Realism Upper arm Headdress Feather Wolf Howling wolf Moon Portrait

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wolf had been waiting at the bottom of the Harrowby road since before the moon cleared the ridge, and Nell Crake pretended not to see it while she dragged the byre door shut against the wind. Her father always said a wolf at full moon was a debt come to collect. She had never asked him what the debt was for.

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It sat on its haunches in the bracken with its breath smoking, pale eyes fixed on the lantern in her hand. Tom had gone up the fell at dusk after the strayed ewes and had not come down. The snow was thickening over the cairn. Nell set the lantern on the gatepost and took the bread knife from the dresser, because her mother had told her a knife was a comfort even when it was useless.

The wolf rose, and she followed it up through the heather without deciding to. It never once looked back to check she was coming. At the wall above the peat hags it stopped, and she saw Tom sitting in the lee of a boulder, his coat open and a grey pelt folded across his knees like a blanket someone had left him. He was asleep. The wolf lay down against his back, and the moon came out whole and white over the two of them.

Nell walked him home by lantern light, the wolf trailing a long way behind until the gate, where it simply was not there any more. In the morning the frost showed only their two sets of boot prints on the track, and a single long hair caught on the top bar of the gate, silver where the sun touched it. Tom has never said where the pelt went. He leaves the gate open on full-moon nights now, and the ewes have not strayed since.