She was known for her tattooing, that was part of who she was, or used to be, so many things had come and gone, so many things had changed. Still proud of her dying art, she would offer to tattoo the young, forever altering them as others saw them but that was her joy, giving them both who they were, and who they would become, One of her first, and her favorites, she tracked down a man known for matches in the Arena, and sat him down, tattooing his shoulder with a stylized man leaning against a brick wall, the body seemingly relaxed though when you looked at it closely you could see the muscles coiled underneath, and the words ,"Come play in my Arena." . She was so proud of it when she did it. Her own body was covered in tattoos, twisted vines, wolves, owls and eagles, her life was patterned there. Yet now, age had gnarled her fingers, the knuckles bending and twisting beyond movement most days, and her own body could no more be her canvas, so she had this doeskin made, the leather thick enough to take
Sitting for hours staring at the skin eyes blank as she tried to see the picture, knowing it would come ... pulling her now dwindling pile of ink out, she lifted it slow, taking her favorite blue, and dusting it lightly, making it pale, lifting her hand, blowing softly the skins left corner become the faintest pale blue, she lifts the violet, mixing it with the blue and blows again this time to the right, the skin darkening sharply, becoming as midnight with a full moon. She goes on, the skin slowly becoming stained, yet she stops, and turns away, warming her hands by the fire. Turning looks at the skin thoughtfully, her eyes taking in the pattern of the colours on the 4 corners, the pale blue darkening to the midnight, the night slowly turning to jade in the lower right, the jade mixing with the blue to form a turquoise in the lower left, the turquoise lightening once more to the pale blue.. the center so far was blank, stark against the colours and a small smile plays over her face as she looks at it wit
Her bones pop as she stands moving once more, pulling out her smoothed pale piece of bone, she begins to add her detail, the movements once so sure, now slow, her hands shaking but the form of a white wolf slowly emerging from the green, her bone chip gently scraping the hide clean as she needs to the white beneath, as tree trunks rise around them branches weaving into the darkening skies. You see the head of a white animal emerging from the trees, a hint of silver, melted by the fire and carefully applied forms the horn needed to make this animal a white unicorn. Her hand moves, slower now as she dozes off for a time, her mind once more taking her to days when she was young.
She wakes. with a start, eyes seeking out the skin and stands slowly, running her fingers over it and nods, Her hand rise to begin to shade out the black wings seeming to form, a silent body behind them, her red sharp against the black, two eyes malevolent in the gaze as they seem to watch her.. and her body hunches slightly, reaching for her soft ink, she lifts her hand and blows it up, between the darkness and the light, highlighting the shimmering orb of the moon. A slight smile and she slowly kneels again, her shaking hand outlining an ankh, mixing her yellow and red sparingly, a soft burnished gold resulting which she blows gently to it. She moves to the turquoise and gazes at it a long time, her eyes lost once more in memories Her arm moves with what speed she can, her bone alternately scraping it clean and adding a darkened green, till waves appear, the corner seeming to be a sea in full storm, seen above, a single white feather seems to float on the breeze, tranquil though the waves churn from the
She sits back and looks at the skin silently for a time, her movements halting in silent confusion, having left the corner tinted a pale blue last. For her knowledge of what she would put there was not the best ... having never sought the lightening path in her life, still she grits her teeth and closes her eyes, trying to picture it.
Time passes before she once more pushes herself upright, hands moving once more to the skin, beginning where it is easiest for her, a dolphin leaping over the feather, skin gleaming as if wet, it seems to be jumping for the sheer joy of it. She looks up higher, and with a silent prayer, begins again, her hand guided by few interactions. The form she slowly scrapes and tints now is unclear mostly, but begins to take shape, a phoenix rising, a small breathed word of thanks, to one who never judged her harshly and she begins the last of the outside, her movements slowly now then ever before, a figure taking shape, a woman with white wings, each feather outlined in silver, a longsword with flames across her chest, yet her face is unclear. A soft sigh and she decides that will have to do, she isn't sure how to depict the face of a holy being. Usually they weren't on speaking terms in her life. Sitting back she looks at the center, her breath coming shorter now, but determination in her eyes.
She slowly pulls herself upright, face blanching, as she catches her weight heavily on the table before moving once more to the skin. Her bone slowly begins to pierce the white north of the center of the skin, a ring emerging, a closed fist covered in mail protruding from it, each link in the mail outlined clearly. Breath coming shorter now she slowly sits against the wall, eyes moving to her pile of ink, a sad sigh as she picks up her last ink. A short rest, and she will finish, she closes her eyes, hand cupping the last jar as her head leans back. Time passes as her breathing becomes softer, before ceasing entirely, time having caught up to her. The skin stretched to be finished but left undone by the ravages of time. A wind begins to blow in the window of her small cottage, as her hand relaxes, the last jar falling and opening, spreading the dusty ink across the floor. The wind seems to catch it, picking it up and moving to the canvas, the ink brushing the center one last time, before the wind too di
The skin seems to pulse softly, the center surprisingly seemingly complete, a black boar charging at you, cupped in a ghostly hand.



Penned by my hand on the 5th of Mayan, in the year 273 AF.