Small black stormtrooper helmet tattoo on the upper arm, with three dots below it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Stormtrooper helmet on an upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small stormtrooper helmet is tattooed on the outer upper arm, drawn in simple black linework with solid black areas for the visor and helmet details. Three small dots sit beneath it, one central and two either side, in the same black ink. The ink is the only colour, set against pale skin and a grey sleeveless top, with the helmet placed near the centre of the frame.

Upper arm Stormtrooper Helmet Star wars Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, you lot, and mind the fire, because this is the part where my grandmother always stopped and poured herself a second cup. The Kingdom of Vell kept four hundred men in white helmets. Their visors were black as a bruised plum, and nobody in the market at Corrow had ever seen the face under one, because the helmets were pressed each spring from a bone-pale shell that the king's smiths boiled soft and shaped over wooden moulds. A man who lifted his helmet in Vell lost his right hand. That was the law, and nobody argued with it.

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Dalin Haske, a well-digger's son, took the post at the north gate the winter the river froze. His helmet sat too wide across the brow, so he stuffed the lining with wool and stood in the snow for a year watching the road. He saw carts, a priest, and a goose that got loose twice. Every evening he dropped three drops of warm pitch onto the chin plate to mark the hours, because the sergeant had said a guard who lost count of the hours would be a guard who forgot his own name.

One dusk a woman came up the road with a bucket on each arm and asked for water. The well was frozen, so he cracked the ice with the butt of his spear. She waited while he knelt, and when the bucket came up full he found he was thirsty, and that his hands were shaking too much to fit the ladle under the visor. So he lifted the helmet and drank. The woman looked at his face for a long time, and then she laughed, quietly, the way you laugh at a joke that nobody else is in on. The king had been dead since the thaw before, and the sergeant had gone south with the last of the pitch.

In the morning Dalin walked his post bareheaded. He still has the three black drops of pitch from that week, pressed flat into the well-rim where the stones are warm from his hand. If you go north and see them, don't scrape them off. They are the only thing in Vell that was ever signed.