Neo-traditional drawing of a red-haired woman with a feather headdress, a raven and an axe, shaded in black and grey with red hair.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman with raven and axe design

Neo-trad · Mixed · Flash

A portrait of a woman with flowing red hair, wearing a feather headdress with a round ornament, with a raven perched at her shoulder and an axe behind her head. The linework is clean and the face and raven are shaded in black and grey with smooth tonal gradients. Red is used for the hair and swirling scroll shapes, which sit against the pale paper background.

Neo-trad Woman Portrait Raven Bird Axe Feather Headdress Swirl Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dunmore had taken three hatpins and a pearl button before the band finished its first foxtrot, and Ivy Coyle let him, because the cloakroom hatch was hers and the bird was the only one in the Palais who never asked for a ticket. Mr Pell wanted the raven gone. He said so every Saturday, leaning on the brass rail with his cigar, while the dancers swung past in a blur of cheap silk and the sprung floor boomed under their heels like a drum skin.

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The fire axe hung behind glass beside the stage door, its red handle chipped where some Blackpool lad had once tried to open the case for a dare. Ivy had polished the blade every Friday since the war began, though nobody had ever told her why it needed polishing. Tonight Pell came to the hatch with a man in a grey suit and a sheaf of papers, and said the building would be a picture house by spring. Dunmore dropped from the shelf to her shoulder and dug his beak into her collar, the way he did when someone was lying.

"Ledger," she said. The grey suit looked up. Dunmore flew to the bandstand, lifted the leather book from the chair where Pell had left it, and carried it up into the rafters, pages flapping like wet laundry. The band kept playing. Pell swore and went up the ladder after it, the grey suit close behind, and for a while the whole hall was a racket of wings and shouting.

When the last waltz ended, Ivy stood at the glass case with the key in her palm and did not turn it. Dunmore came down through the lamplight and settled on her shoulder with a ribbon from the ledger hanging from his beak. Below, the men were on their knees gathering soggy papers from the boards. Outside, the tide was creeping over the promenade, and nobody on that floor had thought to ask which of them had really been the thief.