Realistic black and grey tattoo of two wolves on a person's upper back, near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two wolves on a shoulder blade

Realism · Back · Black and grey · Photo

Two wolves are drawn one above and behind the other, with soft grey shading in the fur and amber-toned eyes. Dark linework defines the ears and muzzles, and a few small symbols sit to the left of the upper wolf. The close crop shows the upper back of a person with long blonde hair, with the tattoo filling most of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Harrowmere had seen the two wolves cross the salt road in daylight, which was why the reeve sent the boy Tamsin up the ridge with a lantern and no sword. He was to count the tracks and be back before the bells. He found them instead at the edge of the larch wood, the grey dog standing a length ahead of the grey bitch, both of them looking at him the way the old men looked at a bad debt.

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The reeve had not said what the boy should do if the wolves looked back. Tamsin sat down on a stump and waited. The wind came round from the west and brought him the smell of wet wool and the tallow the hunters rubbed into their traps. Below in the valley a dog barked three times and stopped. The larger wolf turned his head toward the sound, and the smaller one turned hers, and then they were both gone into the trees, the way water goes into sand.

When Tamsin walked back at dusk the reeve asked whether he had counted them. He said there were two. The reeve asked if they were hunting. He said no, they were only watching the road, the way you watch a door when someone you love is on the far side of it. The reeve laughed and wrote a number in his book. Tamsin did not tell him that the grey dog had stopped at the first trap, lowered his muzzle to the iron, and nudged it back under the leaves, gently, the way you would lift a child's hand off a hot pot.

Nobody set a trap on that ridge after that. In winter, at the edge of the lantern light, two pairs of amber eyes still catch the glow on the road to Harrowmere, and the people there say it is only the moon caught in the larches.

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