Black and grey forearm tattoo of a Link-like figure with a sword beneath a gold Triforce, with rays above, a black wolf creature below and rows of drops at the base.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Link, Triforce and wolf on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A forearm tattoo showing a small figure resembling Link from The Legend of Zelda, holding a sword upright beneath a gold Triforce with radiating black rays. Below, a bold solid-black wolf-like creature stands above a row of four black drops, with fine outlines and filled areas. Colour is limited to a little green on the figure's tunic and yellow on the Triforce, with the rest in black and skin tone, giving a graphic, illustrative composition.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You learn the fair by its smells before its names: diesel, candyfloss, wet canvas. By the third week at Hollin Park you can tell which generator is about to cough before it does, and you know the grey wolf on the gallopers has a chipped ear that the lads on the dodgems swear is a bite. Mr Okonedo, who runs the coconut shy, hands you a green cap the last boy left hanging on a nail, and says a sword is useless on a fairground but a boy with one looks like he means business.

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The rain comes in sideways the night the big wheel stops. You sit on the caravan steps with a torch and count the drops falling off the awning, four of them in a row, each one landing on the same cracked paving slab. Your mum says the wolf is only paint and wood, but when you shine the torch across the gallopers it turns its head a fraction, the way a dog does when it hears its name called from another field.

So you go out with the cap pulled low and the wooden prize sword from the shooting gallery tucked in your belt. The wolf waits by the dead ride, mouth open. Past it, on the wet tarmac, three gold triangles have been chalked by someone who knew the shape better than you do. Stand where they point, Mr Okonedo told you once, and the fair will show you the way home.

You step between the triangles. The wolf lowers its head, the rain stops in the air, and every drop hangs there like a bead of ink on a page. You lift the sword. Then the generator coughs, the lights come back across the whole field, and the wolf is only wood again, standing over you with its chipped ear and a single drop running down its painted cheek.

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