Odin's Ravens Tattoo Designs Novels & Stories

Before he and Cyan talked again. "Why is it that everyone has a tattoo?" this is what I've been asking for a while now. "Everyone is required to have one." "Really? So even us? Are we going to get tattoos too?" "Uhuh? And at the bar we're going to, there's the tattoo artist who will put you in. I'll go with you." "What style tattoo do we need to have?" "It depends on you, darling." "You? What about you?" "Three ravens." He showed the part near his chest. Three birds were there and it was all a raven.

He was still asleep. I slipped back into the bed beside him. That’s when I realized—he was burning up. Sweat dampened his chest despite the cold. His bare chest glistened under the dim light. My fingers hovered over the black raven tattoo on his left breast, its wings spread wide, claws clutching a broken crown like it had conquered something… or lost everything. “What does it mean?” I asked myself in a hushed voice. “I’ve never really looked at you this way. But now, it’s all starting to make sense. The date on your forearm…”

Logan zoomed in slowly, letting the image sharpen into focus. A black raven enclosed in a crescent circle. The symbol sat clearly at the back of the driver’s neck. Logan’s voice dropped into something colder, heavier as he turned to face his boss. “Raven's Clan.”

This was different. My senses, already heightened, zeroed in, leading me towards the outer wall. And there it was. My breath hitched. A raven, its black feathers stark against the cold stone, pinned by a small, cruelly fashioned dagger driven straight through its chest. My jaw tightened. This wasn't just a dead bird; it was a fucking statement. Then I saw it, tied to its leg with a rough piece of twine – a scrap of cloth, faded and torn, but the sigil was unmistakable. A snarling wolf’s head, white against a blood-red field. It was from The Northern Highlands.

There was something everybody in the room had in common, and that thing is their evil and gut-killing aura. None of them were smiling. But if there was anybody that had the most notorious and evil expression, it was the guy sitting in the direction opposite the other six. He had the darkest hair in the world, dark-brown eyes that showed his hatred against humanity and his devilish personality. Across his left cheeks is a beautiful yet sleep-tormenting tattoo of the Indian red Scorpion. Raven seemed to be in torture as he looked at the six men before him. His hands were balled into a fist and it seemed like he was holding his breath as he observed each of their faces.

The four types of tattoos were the Alpha tattoo, the Beta tattoo, the Zeta tattoo, and the member tattoo. My tattoo had seven moons at the top of my back with two versions of the Helm of Awe on each shoulder blade. In the middle of my back was Yggdrasil, the tree of life with a wolf head coming out of the roots. Finally, below the wolf and running down my spine was my name in Old Norse. In the middle of Yggdrasil’s branches, the Alpha sign of our pack was cleverly blended in.

I bow my head, pretend to focus on the screen. "You were staring," he says in a low, amused voice. He leans against my desk, arms crossed, towering over me. "My tattoos interest you?" I shake my head, too quickly. "No, I… it's nothing." He chuckles softly. "Liar." He pulls up the left sleeve of his t‑shirt, revealing more of the raven and other symbols: a miniature cathedral, eight‑pointed stars, Cyrillic numbers. "Every design has a story. The raven… it's for memory. For those we've lost, but never forget. The stars are rank. The cathedral… the faith you keep even when everything else goes to hell."

"Ten years ago, during the first Silverfang push. We were caught in a canyon. I was the only one who made it out. I put their names where I could feel them every time I breathe. It reminds me that my life isn't just mine. I carry them with me." Raven didn't pull away. She leaned forward, her chest pressing against my back. The heat of her body was a shock to my system. She dipped her fingers into a small jar of peppermint oil she had brought. She began to rub it into the skin over my old wounds. "You carry so much, Jax," she whispered. "It's my job," I said. "It shouldn't be your only job," she countered. She moved around to the side, her knees brushing against my thigh. She looked at the la

Through the rips in reality, I caught glimpses of somewhere else - a place of eternal darkness that oozed nothing but terror. Then she stepped through. Raven. Raven had changed since our encounter at Blake's house months ago. Her ebony skin now bore intricate blood-red tattoos that covered every visible inch of her body. They weren't just markings - they were moving, shifting patterns that pulsed with their own malevolent light. Her crimson eyes burned with power that made the air around her shimmer like heat waves. When she moved, reality bent slightly, as if the world itself was afraid of her presence. Even Dante stepped back, recognition and something like fear flickering across his ancie

“Never going to happen.” Just as I’m about to turn away, Raquel grabs me by the upper arm. My shirt’s sleeve rides up an inch, exposing the bottom portion of my old tattoo. She frowns, a flicker of recognition flashing across her eyes. She doesn’t let me escape, moving so swiftly that I have no time to react. She pushes my sleeve up to expose the entire composition: a raven with red feathers and an arrow in its black beak. Her mouth falls open. “You’re a Red Raven.”