Fine line black script reading warrior along the inner forearm, with the arm resting over an open book and a knitted teal blanket.

Warrior script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a forearm with the word warrior written in thin, flowing black script running diagonally from wrist towards elbow. The linework is clean and even, with no visible shading, and the ink is a dark, slightly soft black. The arm rests across an open book and a chunky mint green knitted blanket, with the warm, orange-toned background filling the frame.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Warrior Word Script Book

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The show had been dying for three winters when Tobias came up the lane to Harrowgate with a carpenter's pencil behind his ear and nothing in his pockets. Madam Sorrel mended the big top with her own needle and did not look up from it. What can you do, she asked. He said he could letter, and she said a circus had no use for a man who could only write, and he said that was why he had walked so far.

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She set him to painting the bills, since the printer in Leeds had stopped answering. There was no lion left, no strongman, no fire-eater, only Sorrel on the wire at sixty years of age and a grey mule called Dunstan who would not cross the bridge. So Tobias painted the one word he had, large and black, WARRIOR, copied from a schoolbook, and pasted it on every barn and gatepost from Ripon to the sea. Folk came out of curiosity and stayed out of pity, and some of them stayed out of wonder, because a word painted large enough will carry a tent through a bad season.

On the last night of the season the wind came off the moor and took the canvas by its corner. The lamps swung. The crowd stood up as one. Sorrel was already on the wire, and she did not look down or fall or hurry. She simply walked, one foot and then the next, while Tobias held the guy rope with both hands and Dunstan brayed at the sky.

She reached the far platform as the last pole went down. Afterwards, in the mud, Tobias found a torn bill caught in the hawthorn, its back blank except for pencil in a slanting hand he did not know: Keep the rope tight. He kept it tight for forty years, and the circus never went under, though every winter the village said it would.