Death Moth Tattoo Meaning 소설 & 이야기

Layla's fans sang her praises, saying that she was kind, beautiful, and the best sister in the world. It was raining on the day they cremated my remains. Layla carried the urn containing my ashes and pretended to shed a few tears. I moved toward her. Then, I tried to punch and kick Layla to try and get her hands off me. It was so revolting. Everything about this world sickened me. I dropped to the ground after having exhausted myself. Then, I watched as they put me inside a small box. The words, "Our dearest daughter, Hazel Larson", could be seen on the rectangular tombstone. How ironic.

Why wasn’t she awakening? Mortus took off his tunic, his glowing white skin littered with a few scars, but mostly tattoos of crosses and busty women. “I’ll get them covered, just for you. I’ll rip the skin from my body if that will make it better.” My arms were trying to crawl away from him, only to be pulled back to the center of the bed.

"Is that what the tattoo is for? Your Mom?" She slowly nods her head and averts her gaze back towards the window, her tattoo peeking out just a smidge above her uniform collar. "For her... and my Dad. Black angel wings usually represent fallen angels. My Mom and Dad? They were my angels." Silence looms over us as I pull into the department parking lot and turn the engine off. "Will you talk to him for me, Crayvin? Just check on him for me, please? I don't want him alone, and you two are close. He probably needs you more than you think right now, even if he isn't ready to admit that to you, yet."

EVANGELINE. My gaze snaps back to the tattoo on his torso, realising it’s not just any snake but the symbolic sea serpent of Hades… The symbol of the Night Shade Pack, how did I not realise! I look up at him, grasping onto the fact that I had gone straight from the wolf’s den into the monster’s lair…

The part of me that could never be taken because it simply was. It had been sleeping, waiting, biding its time. And now, at the moment of my death, it woke. The tattoo on my back—the Ghost Wolf mark I'd been born with—ignited. Not with purple witch-fire. Not with the corrupted power Kelly craved. With silver moonlight that burned like the sun.

The echo of harm that ripples outward even at death. When I take it, the pain is instant. My tattoos ignite. Not their usual slow burn, but a furious, living red that crawls across my skin as if the evil itself wants to be seen. The marks coil down my arms, over my ribs, up my throat, vivid and angry. The soul resists, not with strength, but with malice that lingers even at the threshold of its end. I carry it through anyway, absorbing what must not return to the living world.

“What’s up, Aussie?” I curled into a ball and blocked whatever he said to the man down under. A few moments later, he came back and kissed me on my exposed shoulder. “Did you make a plan?” “They will brief us on the plan. What does that tattoo mean?” Shit. I thought he didn’t notice it. “It’s in Arabic. It means, every sun has to set.” “That sounds deep yet sad.” I turned and faced him. He looked so menacingly handsome and relaxed, not the brutal, ruthless mafia that people feared. “It means everything has an end. We should enjoy life and live to the fullest because tomorrow is not guaranteed.”

And, soon, my eyes start to close, my lips parted as I let the tingles seep deep into my bones. “The butterfly means beauty and freedom, the smoky bird represents freedom and hope, the thorns stands for resilience, while the black rose…” Zeath suddenly pauses before blurting out, “death?” “I think it’s mystery,” I shrug, “at least that’s what the tats artist told me, and bloody hell you guys look way deeper into shii than necessary.” Zeath looks at me through the mirror, and my heart skips a beat. “It depends. Were you really a caged bird?” he asks while letting his hands slide to the front—to my collarbones, I mean.

Behind the desk sat a massive man with a salt-and-pepper mustache and sunglasses. “Chance?” Matteo asked. “Alpha Matteo!” the man said, grinning. “Take a seat.” “We’ll stand,” Nickie said, his eyes locking on the man’s hand. On the back of the man’s hand was the tattoo. The serpent and the moon. “What’s the ink mean?” Nickie asked, his voice lethal. “It’s about renewal,” Chance said calmly. “The snake sheds its skin. The moon turns. Life through death. It’s the mark of the Velvet Syndicate.”

Zach Romano. Leaning against the kitchen doorway like it belonged to him. His black hair was a mess, his blue eyes flat, unreadable, and his bare chest on full display, carved with muscle and shadow. On his ribs, a tattoo stretched over olive skin, an Italian cross with Latin scrawled underneath. Mors tua, vita mea. Your death, my life. I stared at the tattoo. Then, slowly, my eyes dropped to his torso. Abs, tight and low, vanishing into a pair of dark gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.