Colourful watercolour-style compass rose tattoo with Roman numerals on an upper arm, with black linework over splashes of red, blue, yellow and green.

Watercolour compass rose on upper arm

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A black compass rose with a dotted outer ring and compass points labelled N, E, S and W sits at the centre of the design, with Roman numerals running up the arm above it. The black linework is bold and crisp, while the surrounding fills are loose, splattered washes of red, pink, blue, yellow and green. The tattoo is shown in colour on the upper arm, with the design framed by the edge of the shoulder.

Upper arm Compass Compass rose Roman numeral Splashes Cardinal points

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

Mind the step, the stone there has been loose since my father's time, and do not look down at the drop while you are counting your breaths. Now. The fog came over Scarrow Pass the week the mules were late, and I had nothing to steer by but the brass compass my grandmother carried over that same ridge in her own worn boots.

Keep reading

The needle would not settle. It swung red, then blue, then a sickly yellow-green as the mist drank the colour out of everything, and the men behind me began to say the mountain was taking us. I opened the lid, turned the card until the N sat under the needle, and told them the points were the only honest thing up here. North is a direction, I said, not a promise. Walk toward the part of the sky that is stubborn about its colours and you will find the pass.

We walked for an hour by that rose. Old Tomas cursed every time the wind lifted the fog and showed us the drop, and every time I saw the black star holding steady on its ring of dashes, numbered in the old Roman way the cartographers liked, XVI and VI and the rest. Then the mist tore open like wet paper and there stood the cairn, grey and certain, lichen on its stones the colour of spilled paint.

When we reached the inn at the bottom, Tomas asked why I had never once trusted the needle. I told him I trusted it well enough. I only never trusted the fog to tell me where north was.