Black ink tattoo of three rearing horses in a vertical line with a dashed trail ending in a small curl, on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three rearing horses in a dashed trail on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Three black figures resembling rearing horses are stacked diagonally down the forearm, each slightly lower than the last. A thin dashed line runs beside them and ends in a small curled shape near the bottom. The linework is textured and sketchy with some shading, and the image is entirely black and grey against a pale green background.

Forearm Horse Dashed line Curl Animal

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third horse went over the lip of the pass first, which was the wrong way round, and Old Harrow swore at me for it all the way down to the tarn. I had the lead rope wound twice around my glove and the snow was already filling our tracks, so I kept my eyes on the grey mare's ears and let the pack string find its own feet.

Keep reading

We had come up from Scarrow Bridge with eleven mules and three saddle horses, bound for the high shieldings before the thaw. Three of the horses were not ours. The bay, the roan and the dun had been bought at Kendal fair by a man who never gave his name, and he had paid in silver coins stamped with a hare. Nobody liked to ask what a hare was doing on money that had been to Scotland and back. The horses reared at every shadow that crossed the path, pawing at the air as though the mountain itself had stepped into their way.

At the foot of the pass the dun stopped dead and would not be coaxed. I went back up the line to see why, and found a length of frayed rope lying in the snow, its end knotted into a tight curl like a question mark. Harrow took it from my hand, looked at it a long time, and put it in his coat without a word. Behind us, pressed into the white, a row of small dark marks ran back up the slope in a dashed line, one after another, as if someone had been counting our steps. Nobody had walked there. Harrow did not look up, and neither did I.