Realism tattoo of a wolf's head beside a sunset scene with a silhouetted wolf and pine trees, on the upper back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wolf portrait with forest sunset on the back

Realism · Back · Mixed · Photo

A large wolf's head with blue-grey eyes dominates the right side of this tattoo, rendered in soft black and grey shading with fine fur texture. To the left, a dark-edged circle frames a muted orange sunset, a silhouetted wolf on a rise and a row of pine trees in muted green. The image is a close, straight-on photograph of the piece on skin, with the composition filling most of the frame.

Realism Back Wolf Wolf head Moon Sunset Pine tree Forest Silhouette Landscape

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

Our Hollin Ridge was the last place the sheep were brought down before the frost, and my dad never once walked it after dark. He said the grey shape on the rise was not ours to name. Everyone in Tarn Carrow knew the story of the ewe that went up the slope in October and came down alone, and of the lad who went after her and came down with nothing to say.

Keep reading

I was eleven when Bramble, our collie, slipped the gate and didn't come back. Mam wept into the flour bin, and Dad went up with the lantern and returned before midnight with his cap in his hands. Two days later I took the path myself, the sun already sitting on the tops of the firs, the sky gone the colour of a bruised plum and then of a peach. I stopped where the trees thinned and saw him.

He was no dog. His head was as big as a bread oven, and the fur along his neck stood up like barley in a gale. His eyes were the grey-blue of the tarn in winter, and they did not look at me so much as through me, down toward the valley where our lamps were beginning to show. I did not run. I said Bramble's name very quietly, the way you'd speak to a nervous horse, and something moved in the bracken below him.

Bramble came limping up out of the ferns with a torn ear and her tail going like a flag. The wolf turned, slow as the sun going down, and walked over the rise until only his shape stood against the orange. Dad never believed me. But every autumn since, I leave a shank of mutton on the stone by the gate, and in the morning it is always gone, and the dogs in the valley sleep through the night.