Black ink linework drawing of a unicorn head with a flowing, wavy mane, shown as a tattoo design sketched on paper.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Unicorn head line drawing

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A unicorn head in profile, with a spiralled horn, pointed ears and eyes drawn in fine outline. The mane flows down and across the composition in long, wavy strands drawn with thin, varied lines. The drawing is in black ink on pale paper, with no colour and simple shading suggested by the density of the hair lines.

Fine line Unicorn Horse Horn Mane Line drawing

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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 rope gave way on the third morning, so it fell to you to climb the north stair of Carrick Dune with the mortar bucket and a bad temper. Master Ruel had sworn the hall was sound enough to strip for slates. He had not mentioned that something lived in it. You push through the arch and stop. A unicorn stands on the broken flagstones, head bowed, and her mane pours through the empty windows and down the walls like a waterfall caught mid-fall.

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Her horn is wound in a spiral that catches the light the way a bent wire does. Her eyes are closed. The mane has wormed through every crack in the floor, knotted round the pillars, and tied the roof beams into a basket. Ruel's men took one look last week and went home. You kneel in the grit and start on a knot with your fingers, because your mother taught you that anything tied can be untied if you are patient.

It takes the whole afternoon. The hair is cool and smells of rain and crushed mint, and each strand you free lets a little more stone settle back into its place. When the light turns orange she lifts her head and breathes once against your palm. The next morning the steward arrives with a purse and a saw, asking after the horn for the lord's cabinet of curiosities.

You tell him the roof will stay on. Ruel climbs the stair himself to see, and when he comes down he is pale. The unicorn has gone. In her place a single long strand of mane lies across the threshold, bright as thread, and beside it sits your bucket, full of fresh lime, with not one crack left in the walls.