Black line drawing of an Eye of Horus design with feather-like strokes on a white background, shown as a tattoo design rather than on skin.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Eye of Horus design with feather strokes

Black and grey · Flash

The drawing shows a stylised eye with a heavy eyebrow and a spiral curl at the lower end, with feather-like strokes sweeping above and below the eye. The linework is bold and solid black on a plain white background, with fine hatching within the feathers. The composition is centred and symmetrical, with no colour or shading.

Eye Eye of horus Feather Spiral

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

"Mind the lamp, boy, it's the only thing aboard that remembers which way is down." Old Teodor said it without looking up from the knot he was tying, and the lad holding the lantern shifted his bare feet on the wet planks. "Go on, then. You want the tale of the purser's eye, so sit where the spray can't reach you and keep your questions in your mouth till I've finished."

Keep reading

The Halcyon Mary was out of Falmouth with a brass-bound chest bound for Lisbon, and the lid bore a painted eye, black as tar, with feathers sweeping out from it like the wings of a seabird that had given up on flying. Ambrose Quill, the purser, guarded that chest as if his own heart sat inside it. He said the eye could see the weight of every lie told within a league of it, and that the feathers were the scales of truth, a thing his mother had taught him in a chapel that no longer stood. The men laughed until a silver watch went missing from the cabin of Jacob Pell, and Pell swore on his mother's grave that the purser had seen it go.

Quill knelt at the chest in the middle of a gale, water sluicing across the deck and the rigging singing like wire. He lifted the lid. Inside lay one grey feather and nothing else. He called the crew to the lantern, made each man lay a palm on the feather, and told them a liar's hand would make it drop. Pell's hand lay flat and steady. When it came to Quill's turn, the feather spun from under his fingers and fell into the bilge. The watch was in his own waistcoat, meant for a pawnbroker in Lisbon.

The lad looked at the lantern, then at the old man's hands. "And the eye?" "Still on the lid, boy. The feather never lies. Only the hand resting on it does."