Black and grey tattoo of a Stormtrooper helmet within a circular scrollwork frame, with an Imperial emblem, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Stormtrooper helmet in an ornate frame

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A Stormtrooper helmet sits inside a circular frame surrounded by ornamental scrollwork, with a smaller Imperial emblem circle at the lower left. The design is drawn in bold black outlines with solid black areas on the helmet visor and emblem, and light grey shading on the helmet surface. The image is taken close up at an angle, so the tattoo fills most of the frame.

Upper arm Stormtrooper Helmet Star wars Scrollwork Frame

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lodger in the back attic paid a month ahead in silver and asked for a room facing the harbour. Mrs Pellow, who kept Gull Rest on the cliff road, did not ask why he wore his helmet at breakfast. The fishermen wore worse in weather, and the gulls did not mind. He ate his kippers with the visor lifted an inch and said grace in a voice that came out flat, like a bell with a cloth over it.

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Everyone on the front knew the old tale of the white-armoured men who came over the water in the years of the great storms. Each carried a round badge with spokes like a ship's wheel, and each was promised a frame to hang his name in. Mrs Pellow's grandmother had carved the scrolling leaves round the hall mirror to keep such men from the door, though nobody could say whether it worked. The lodger looked into that mirror every morning for a long while before he went out.

In March the tide climbed the steps of the boat shed and left a round badge in the wet sand. Morwenna, the niece, took it home and rubbed it with vinegar until the spokes shone. That night the lodger came down to the kitchen after the house was asleep and asked for it back. She told him it was on the mantel. He thanked her and said it was not his, only the sea's, and he had been carrying it for someone who had drowned.

She gave it to him. He fixed it in the frame above the mirror, and in the morning the attic was empty and the helmet sat on the bottom stair, polished like a shell. The tide did not come past the third step that spring. Mrs Pellow never learned whose name had been traded for it, but she kept the attic rate the same all the same.