Forearm Hawk Tattoo Novels & Stories

If I wouldn’t have listened to him, he would have tightened his arm more and I would have ended up with shattered bones. His warmth was heartwarming and it gave me the courage to run my finger along his muscled tattooed arm and I made small circles along the lines of his tattoo. He had this artistic tattoo of a warrior on his forearm, wearing armor and he was looking up at the constellation and that moon that was inked in Romeo’s biceps skin. And I wondered what that tattoo was about.

After I shower, I opt for a wife beater and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. My right forearm is still scabbed over from my latest tattoo. Every time I look at it, I am proud that I now have my pack displayed on my body. It had taken me a while to draw out the design just the way I wanted it to look. It depicts a full moon coming up over a hazy horizon. A wolf's head with bright red eyes is baring its teeth as it emerges forth from the moons' surface.

"Uff, just forget my question. Um, I go ahead first—" "Why always avoid me, Aurora?" I looked at him with a scowl. "I-I'm not avoiding you," I replied then swallowed the remaining wine in my glass. To my surprise, Damien held my left wrist. Then he observed what he saw there. I know, he wants to see the tattoo on my wrist. It was a small halo with wings tattooed. It also has the date, month, and year engraved in the center of the wings. I heard him breathing deeply. "My child,"

As he turned back toward her, something caught her eye. A mark on his left forearm, faint and partially hidden beneath the edge of his sleeve. When he lifted his arm, the fabric slipped just enough for the ink to show. A tattoo. Not decorative. Not artistic. Sharp lines. Clean angles. A symbol. Her breath stalled. She had seen that mark before, in Damon’s documents. The same emblem next to covert operatives assigned to missions with no civilian disclosure. She didn’t think so. She didn’t breathe. “Kai,” she whispered, her voice thin, “what is that?”

Thor killed his third attacker and stepped back toward me. “How many?” he asked. I did not answer. Because I was counting differently. Not how many remained. But how many were designed to die. That was when I saw it. On the wrist of one of the fallen wolves, partially exposed beneath torn fabric. A mark. A tattoo. Recognizable. I froze for a fraction of a second longer than I should have. Thor noticed immediately. “What is it?” I knelt slowly, pulling the wrist closer. The symbol was burned into skin with deliberate precision.

“The Raven. Known as the harbinger of death. Marked in her rebirth, granting ultimate authority within her title. And yet, in all her glory, eventually came to a slow, excruciating end. One where she, despite her best efforts, was unable to prevent the death of our lineage.” “…No…,” I whispered. But she was right. I could keep lying to myself, keep refusing to look… but there was certainly more than just a raven tattoo there…. It was almost like… bite marks. Semi-circles littering my skin, overlapping in their design to the point where it was almost impossible to make out what they were. …Unless you knew. Unless you knew exactly what you were looking at. And if someone is marked with a doubl

However, just when the game was about to end, my eyes caught a glimpse of something that made me stop. I noticed that Clark had a peculiar tattoo on his arm I believed was similar to what we found in Hunter Grey. Based on my quick observation, the tattoo was an intricate design of a demented clown, with elongated limbs and a twisted grin on its face. The colors used were vibrant yet grotesque, with shades of mustard yellow, deep red, and silky green. The clown's eyes were black and soulless as if they were staring right into your deepest fears. But the weirdness of the tattoo did not stop there. Around the clown's body were tiny, almost indiscernible symbols and lines that seemed to move and

But how the hell was I supposed to be his stronghold while I was trapped in my own bubble of misery and pain? He took a few feet in my direction before shoving the note to me. I grasped it with shaky hands and unfolded it, then felt a sheen of cold sweat drizzling down my spine when I stared at the majestic gold and black hawk that was engraved on the paper, staring back at me with the soul-piercing eyes. All the fog around me cleared in a heartbeat when my eyes traced every possible outline of it, trying to find a flaw, trying to find anything that would tell me it was fake because there was no way this emblem was alive. Because the owner had long turned into cinder and ashes.

Just barely enough for me to see it and know it was meant for me. I looked away from her and that was when I saw it. The stranger had stepped slightly further into the light of the hallway and his left forearm was visible where his sleeve was pushed up. A tattoo ran along the inside of his forearm, dark ink, a specific pattern — angular lines that curved at the end in a way that was not common, not something you saw every day. I had seen that tattoo before. I had cleaned dried blood away from that exact forearm three days ago in the cold air near my mother's grave, my hands shaking as I pressed gauze against skin that had been torn open by something I hadn't asked about.

I need to focus on finding a way out, ensuring my baby's safety. With renewed determination, I shift my attention back to the resistance group. As I observe them closely, my eyes widen in recognition. On their wrists, just visible beneath their sleeves, are the distinctive hawk-shaped tattoos. The same tattoo I saw on the men who attacked me in the palace. Questions flood my mind, demanding answers. Who are these men? What is their connection to Swiftclaw? And how did they come to possess the knowledge of my existence?