Neo-traditional tattoo of a horned woman with glowing red eyes and a red and black backdrop, on the inner forearm.

Horned woman with red eyes on forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A horned female figure with glowing red eyes fills the forearm, with orange horns, a red and black backdrop and a dark, shaded hairline. Bold black outlines define the features, with smooth grey shading on the face and shoulders. A long thin blade runs down one side beside a small black cross and scattered dots.

Neo-trad Forearm Woman Horn Demon Blade Cross Dot

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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 flour is still warm under your palms when the knocking starts, three slow raps on the back door, though the lane behind Hollis Street has been empty since the milk float passed. You are shaping the second batch of tins because the first has already gone to the Pemberton sisters. The clock above the proving cupboard reads ten to five. Nobody knocks at ten to five.

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You open the door a hand's width. She stands in the cold with a thin blade resting along her forearm like a rolling pin she has forgotten to put down. Her eyes are the red of a coal you banked overnight, and the horns curl wide enough to brush the lintel. She does not ask for anything. She looks past you at the racks, where the tiger loaves are cooling in their ridges, and says the bread in this county is the finest she has tasted in three hundred years, and she would like to buy the one that did not rise.

You know the one. It is a squat, dark cob you shaped badly on Tuesday, split down the crown where the knife slipped. You meant to bin it. You tell her it is not for sale. She sets a black coin on the sill, stamped with a cross, and says she has never once been refused by a man with flour on his hands, because men with flour on their hands always think they are being clever about the price.

You take the coin. It is cold and heavier than it looks. When you wrap the cob in brown paper and pass it through the gap, her fingers stay on the paper a moment longer than they need to, and the grey light comes up pink behind the bins. By the time the sisters knock at the front for their order, the shop smells of bread as usual. The coin is still in your apron pocket, warm now, and you have not once thought to check whether the split in the crust has closed.