Black and grey tattoo of a winged figure across the lower abdomen, with a white top lifted above it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged figure tattoo on the lower abdomen

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo of a winged figure sits across the lower abdomen, with the figure's body in the centre and feathered wings spreading outward on both sides. The shading is dark and soft, with fine linework defining the outline of the figure and the feathers. The photograph is taken in dim light, showing only the torso and a hand holding a white top, with the face cropped out of frame.

Other Winged figure Wing Feather Angel

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had been falling for three days when the stranger came up the pass carrying a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, about the length of a sleeping child. Marta Quell, who kept the ledgers at the Stag and Lantern, watched him through the frosted window and counted the coins in her apron pocket out of habit. He paid for a room facing east, in silver, and asked for a needle, a spool of black thread and a fire hot enough to soften pitch.

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She brought her mother's sewing box up herself. When he unwrapped the oilcloth, there was a figure of pale wood no taller than a hand, a woman with her arms folded across her chest, and wings sewn to her back from feathers stripped off something that had once been far larger. Some of the quills were broken. Some had gone soft and grey at the tips. He worked with the lamp turned low, and he talked while he stitched, about a winter when the angels came down into the high valleys because the upper air had gone to ice, and how they had sat in the inns and waited for a thaw that never came in the order they expected.

By the time the bells in the village rang for matins, the wings were whole again, black and lifting faintly with the draught from the shutters. The stranger was not in the room. The bed had not been slept in. On the table lay the wooden figure, its arms unfolded now, and a silver coin beside it.

Marta went to the window. Below, the snow had stopped, and a single line of prints ran up the pass towards the ridge, one set deep and even, the other set dragging a little behind, as if something heavy were being carried or something light had decided to walk.