Dark Tower Tattoos Novels & Stories

So we killed more than one person who was involved with the Damned Forsaken. Now I have a Ravager's tattoo of a skull with a zombie raven atop of it wearing a crown, a pistol leaning against the blood-splattered skull. The zombie raven is for the Ravager while the skull with the pistol was my Damned Forsaken tattoo, and the crown is for the Death Kings. I put my spin on it so that it’s unique and easily identifiable as a crew tattoo. I didn’t mind letting the man who trained Lachlan be the one to do the work. Plus that Drogo is a Death King and the Vice President for the Death Riders MC.

The revelation about the masked man having a dragon tattoo had struck a chord within him, sending his thoughts spiraling. A surge of memories flooded his mind, memories he had tried to bury deep within his consciousness. The image of a fierce dragon tattoo, its intricate design etched upon a powerful Lycan King's arm, resurfaced in his thoughts. Xander knew all too well the significance of such a mark. It was a symbol of authority, a mark reserved for those who held immense power within the Lycan community.

Esmeray held her forearm up, examining the intricate tattoo that adorned her skin. The tattoo depicted a majestic wolf, its eyes fierce and determined, surrounded by swirling patterns that seemed to dance with a life of their own. The lines were bold and precise, giving the impression of strength and resilience. “This tattoo is so unique,” Esmeray remarked, tracing her fingers over the contours of the design. “I’ve always felt a connection to it, but I never knew why.”

That every wish of mine would be fulfilled with him by my side. Laying down on my pillow without feeling any pain, I fell in a deep sleep. The very deep sleep that seemed like forever. On waking up, I felt much pain in my back. Something felt like a huge wound on my back, I rushed to the mirror to check what it was that was paining me so much. To find out, it was a bat tattoo. I didn't cry instead I felt so happy.

For the man I loved with my everything. Endora's voice softened. "That pup inside you breaking three hundred years of darkness." I looked down at my still flat stomach, where beneath layers of muscle and skin, a future king or queen might be growing. A child who would never know the weight of thorns around their father's heart. “But then his tattoos…. why are they darkening?” I asked. “Because they are trying to bind his wolf further and further to erase the bond. More he tries to be close with you, the more the marks will make him suffer. But once you are marked, it will be broken,” Endora said.

"All I am trying to do is get you people a strong alliance before I die... Delgados are our golden opportunity. But if anything goes wrong then it can kill all of us... You might be misunderstanding Damon's soft behaviour with you but you people need to understand that they are heartless criminals and you have no idea what they do to their enemies... I beg you to make sure that nothing goes wrong tonight..." "Okay!" Maya assured with glossy eyes. She sighed and grabbed her head while sitting on the couch. "Maa, Durga ko toh haldi lagi hi nhi!" (Maa, Durga's haldi ceremony didn't happen!" Tara looked at her sadly. Maya wiped her tears, her heart was breaking at the insult her husband had to g

“Don’t you have training to do?” “It’s not nearly as fun as watching you.” I countered, pouting just a bit. My eyes found the tattoo that started at his shoulder and snaked down his back. A scaled dragon, full of razor-sharp teeth and eyes glistening with intelligence. Its tail was curled around his waist, and ended in a tuft of dangerous points. Atlas’s tattoo seemed much brighter now; definitely brighter than the faded blue it had been in the past. His dragon, it looked as though it were made from ice.

The first thing he came across was his reflection in the mirror. He was shirtless with his pants hanging around his waist. His hairs were a little dishevelled covering his forehead. There was small tattoo of a tornado. It was just an inch tall as he made that when Kaz and Conner challenged him to do so. He never liked to ink his skin as he liked it clean devoid of any absurd pattern on it. The scars he got from the wars he had won were enough for him and he cherished them on his skin. But they, especially Kaz loved to ink his skin or he should say he liked to be penetrated by a needle to ink his blood. Zackarya never had these types of likings.

I turn slowly to see the fourth one. Leaning on the doorframe, carved from shadow, he's broad, barefoot and shirtless. Hair pitch black and buzzed at one side. Tattoos crawl across his entire torso, every muscled inch is covered, moving up his thick neck like smoke licking at his jaw. Across his hairline ink stretches a dark halo. Down the side of his cheek, neat script is inked in the same language viking boy has. Oh he's dangerous. He inhales and holds it. I swear on every pack of mini donuts I’ve ever loved, he growls so low I feel it through the soles of my boots.

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”