Black and grey realism tattoo of a winged angel standing over a fallen figure among clouds, across the ribs and side of the torso.

Winged warrior angel on a ribcage

Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A large winged angel in armour stands above a fallen figure, with a chain held in one hand and a sword raised in the other, set against swirling clouds. The rendering is highly detailed, with soft smoky shading that gives the carved, sculpted look of the figures and feathers. The image is in black and grey and fills the frame across the ribs and side of the torso, with a light blue garment and a brown belt visible at the edges.

Realism Ribs Angel Winged figure Sword Chain Cloud Armour

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

You are told the block came up from the Sallow quarry in the wet month of Orrin, and that it was the last good stone the Crown of Vell would ever pay for. Master Hebbe chalks the outline himself: a warrior with his wings swept high, one foot planted on something that has not yet been given a face. He hands you the point and the mallet and says the angel will carve itself if you stop getting in its way.

Keep reading

For three winters you work the drapery at the hem, learning to let the stone fold the way wet linen folds. The wings take longer. Every feather must lie over the one below it, and Hebbe makes you chisel each one twice, once to find it and once to forgive it. The cloud banks rise behind the figure like breath on a cold window, and the chain in the angel's fist is cut link by link from the same block, so nothing in the carving is ever loose.

The fallen one is the difficulty. Hebbe will not let you finish his face. The king who ordered the piece, he says, wants a demon with no features, only the shape of a man pressed down into the cloud. You obey for a season. Then, on the last evening before the wagons come, you take the fine point and work a single eye into the shadow beneath the angel's sandal, a rounded hollow no bigger than a barley grain, and you tell yourself it is only to see whether the stone will hold it.

In the morning the chain is still whole, the sword still raised, and the eye is still there, looking up at the sculptor who is no longer certain which of them is the warrior. Hebbe runs his thumb over it and says nothing. He taps it flat with one soft stroke, then hands you the dust cloth. Past the ford the cart wheel drops into a rut, and you feel the whole block shift against its straps, and you do not look back to see what it has let go of.