Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Moustache temporary tattoo on a finger
Hand · Black and grey · Photo
A hand with a single finger raised shows a black moustache temporary tattoo, drawn in solid black ink with a simple, clean outline. Below it, the blister-pack card displays the Fingerstache title and a grid of about sixteen moustache designs, each with a printed name, in black on a white background. The composition is a straightforward product shot with the finger in the upper half and the design sheet filling the lower half.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Hob the clerk brings the sheet of moustaches on the morning of the succession vote, and says the Charter of Vantry, as far as anyone can find, says nothing about the upper lip of a finger. You pick The Magnum. It is the thickest on the card, a black sweep that curls at the tips as if it has opinions, and you press it down with your thumb, smoothing out the air bubbles the way the old queen smoothed wax on her seals.
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The Council sits in the Hall of Thin Water, where the ceiling drips at a steady pace the founders apparently considered dignified. Lord Gilman, who has worn a moustache since before the flood and intends to keep it, says the realm wants a ruler with a face it can trust. The Dandy, who has trimmed his own for forty years, sniffs. Rich Uncle, the treasurer, asks who will pay for the carpet. You do not answer. You lift the hand slowly and let the finger rest on the table beside the seal, and the room goes quiet in the way rooms do when they recognise something they have been pretending not to see.
By the third bell the vote is taken, and you have won it by four voices, the Sheriff of Dunmere having changed his mind when you held the finger up at him. That evening you scrub at the knuckle over the basin, but the Magnum will not come off in one piece. It shifts and smears, and its edges go grey like old ink. You leave a crooked smudge behind, and it is still there when the bells ring for dinner. You tell the servants it is only seal wax, which is what every ruler of Vantry has always been told.
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