Small solid black winged Triforce emblem tattoo on the inner upper arm of a woman with long auburn hair wearing a white top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged Triforce crest on upper arm

Geometric · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A small solid black tattoo of a winged Triforce-style emblem sits on the inner upper arm, with bold, angular shapes and a few thin jagged lines. The ink is uniform black with no shading, and the crest is centred in the frame against pale skin. The background is a plain white wall and the top shows a white tank top with the hair falling over the shoulder.

Geometric Upper arm Emblem Wing Video game

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Vic had been up the ladder since the last waltz, and the wings still weren't right. He had sketched the crest three times on the back of a bingo card, three triangles stacked like steps with feathered arms curling out from either side, and every time the left wing came out heavier than the right. Mrs Okonedo from the ticket booth brought him a flask of stewed tea and told him the band would be packing up by midnight whether the ceiling was finished or not.

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Down below, the sprung floor was already chalked with the week's dance numbers, and glitter from Saturday's mirror ball lay in the cracks between the boards. Vic had been hired to repaint the panel over the stage, the one where the hall's founder had once hung a painted eagle that the council ordered taken down in 1971. Nobody had asked for an eagle this time. They had asked for something that would make the place look lovingly kept.

He thought about Danny Rourke, who used to sweep here as a boy and had cut three small triangles into the balcony rail with a penknife, swearing they were a map to somewhere better. Vic had never found the place. He had only found the rail, splintered and grey, and he had copied the marks onto the new panel before painting anything else.

When the wings finally sat level, he climbed down and saw it from the floor: three golden shapes wrapped in black feathers, sharp at the edges, looking less like a crest and more like a door left ajar. The band struck up its last song. Vic left the ladder where it stood, and for the first time in weeks he danced, badly, under the thing he had made.