Neo-traditional colour tattoo of a skull-faced figure in a black top hat above a red rose on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Skull-faced figure in top hat with rose on forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A skull-faced figure in a black top hat with a pink band sits on the forearm, with a large red and pink rose below it. Bold black outlines and solid colour fills are combined with soft grey shading on the face and collar. Green and teal colour washes appear behind the figure, and the photo is taken at a close angle on a wooden floor.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Three days of snow had buried the Crowmere road, so when the knocking came at the back door past midnight, Maud Tarrant swore at the dogs for barking and then at herself for letting the fire fall so low. She took the lamp down the stone passage and lifted the latch with her shoulder, expecting a carter or a drover's boy with frost in his eyebrows. Instead there was a tall man in a black top hat, the band around it pink as a healed scar, and a face beneath the brim that was nothing but bone and two dark hollows where the eyes should be.

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He did not flinch at her stare. He asked for a room and a bowl of anything hot, and laid a coin on the table that bore no face, only a rose pressed into the metal. Maud had nothing to pay with but kindness, and the inn had little of that left after the winter. She fed him broth by the fire anyway. He ate nothing, but he kept looking at the jar on the windowsill where a single red rose stood, the last bloom from the walled garden, forced in tepid water since October.

'That one is spoken for,' Maud said. 'Spoken for by whom?' 'By me. My mother planted the bush.' The man turned the coin over with one grey finger. 'The road opens when something is given freely, Mistress Tarrant. Not taken. Given.' She thought of the sheep in the lower field and the wood she could not spare, then of her mother's hands in the soil, and she lifted the jar and set it on the table between them.

He bowed over it the way a man bows at a wedding, and when he rose the petals had dropped one by one onto the flags. In the morning the snow had gone from the road as if it had never fallen. The coin was still on the table, warm as a hearthstone. Maud slipped it into her apron, and when she went back to the windowsill the jar held a rose again, red as a fresh cut, which had not been there before.

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