Black and grey realism tattoo of a winged, horned figure with hands pressed together, covering the full back of a shirtless man.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged horned figure tattoo across a back

Realism · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A large black and grey tattoo covers most of a man's back, showing a winged figure with horns and a sly expression, hands pressed together in front of the body. The shading is smooth and detailed, with strong contrast in the feathers, robes and musculature. The man is photographed from behind against a dark background, with the tattoo filling the frame.

Realism Back Angel Demon Wing Horn Figure Praying hands Robe

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wind had taken the gallery rail twice that winter, so when Elsie Marrack found the stranger sitting on the lower step of the Scarrow light, soaked to the shoulders and grinning, she thought first of the rail and only second of the man. He had folded his hands together in front of him the way a choirboy does, though the grey feathers folded down his back were far too big for any choir, and the wind off the Atlantic kept lifting them like washing on a line.

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"You've let the oil run low," he said, before she had got her breath back. His horns were polished smooth as conkers, and he touched one with a fingertip now and then, as if to check it was still there. "Thirty-one years you've kept this light going, and not once have you asked the sea for a single favour. I thought I'd come and ask one for you."

I told him to get off my step. He laughed at that, a low, pleased sound, and said he would keep my lamp burning through the spring gales if I would only tell him what I had prayed for at the last spring tide. I had prayed for my son's boat to come home from the Dogger bank. I had not said it aloud to a living soul, and I was not about to say it to a thing with feathers.

"No matter," he said, and pressed his palms together and bowed his head, very solemn for a moment. "I already know. That's the only prayer I have left in me, and I'm spending it on you." When I looked up, the beam was sweeping over the water, and the step was bare except for a single grey feather. The oil can in the store was full to the brim. My son's boat came in on the Thursday. I keep the feather tucked in the logbook, between the names of the drowned and the names of the ones who came home.