Small black compass rose tattoo with N, E, S and W markings on the inner wrist and forearm, with the hand raised towards the shoulder.

Compass rose on the inner wrist

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small compass rose sits on the inner wrist and forearm, with an eight-pointed star and tiny N, E, S and W letters. The design is outlined and filled in solid black ink, with shaded points giving it depth. The photograph is taken in dim light against a dark background, and the hand is raised to rest near the neck.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the loose stones, the lot of you, because the Vell Pass has taken better walkers than any of you. Sit closer. The fire is generous tonight and I am not. Now, the carter Osric Tanne came over the top in the snow month with a mule called Patience and a brass compass his mother had pressed into his hand, the needle sticking to north like a dog to a boot. He trusted that little brass disc more than he trusted his own legs.

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Halfway down the far side the cloud came down so thick he could not see the mule's ears. He stopped. He took out the compass and the needle would not settle. It spun, sulked, and pointed at nothing he believed in. So Osric did what no sensible carter does. He sat on a boulder, unloaded the sacks, and scratched the old rose into the dust with his knife: north, east, south, west, and the four shy points between, the way his grandmother had drawn it on the back of a feed sack. Then he sat with his back to the wind and waited for the sun.

The cloud lifted slowly, the way a bad tooth stops hurting. When Osric looked down, the needle had found north again, and it was pointing the same way as the star in the dust. Beyond it the path ran down into the valley, and the low sun hung exactly over the notch where the track dipped, as if someone had drawn the road in gold for him.

Patience put her nose into the dirt and sneezed. Osric laughed until he had to sit down again, and that is why the carters of this valley never leave the top without scratching a star on a flat stone. Now who wants the second half of the story, and who wants to go to bed?

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