Black and grey tattoo of a winged, helmeted armoured woman shown in three photographs of a limb, with shaded feathered wings behind her.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged armoured warrior woman on a leg

Other · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo depicts a female warrior in ornate armour and a winged helmet, facing forward with a stern expression, with large feathered wings spreading behind her. The linework is detailed and the shading is smooth, with strong contrast in the helmet, armour plates and feathers. The three panels show the same black and grey piece from slightly different angles, with the design filling most of the limb.

Other Warrior Wing Armour Feather Woman Helmet

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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 pan is already smoking when the skipper bangs the hatch and tells you the glass is falling fast, so you take the bacon off the heat and tip the lot into a tin, because a cook who lets a sea come up on a full stove is a cook who goes over the side with the spoons. Ruth from the wheelhouse shouts that the wind is backing south-west. You nod, though nobody can see you through the steam.

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The galley on the Morning Star is four feet of bench, a stove that only lights on the third match, and a bulkhead above the sink where the previous cook scratched a woman into the paint with a marlinspike. Winged helmet, wings flared out either side like a pair of gulls caught mid-turn, face set toward the door as if she is checking who has come in. Nobody has ever scrubbed her off. You wipe your hands on the cloth and look up at her each time the boat drops, and she keeps her stern face and her armoured shoulders and says nothing, which is more than the skipper does.

Then the lamp over the table swings wide and the kettle goes skating across the deck. You grab the rail, trap the kettle with your foot, and for a moment the whole galley hangs at an angle that makes the feathers look like they are lifting. Maybe they are. You are not sentimental. You still say, "Not today, love," to the bulkhead, and the boat rights itself with a groan.

By dawn the wind has dropped and the crew come down grey-faced for porridge. Ruth eats two bowls and asks if you spent the night talking to the painting. You say you did, and that she is the only one aboard who listens. Ruth laughs, and you put the kettle back on, the third match catching first time.