You arrive early for your appointment because you are reliable. Not predictable. Dependable.

You show the tattoo artist the characters you want on your arm. She looks skeptical, but as a veteran of many spring breaks, she agrees and goes to print a stencil.

She returns with it and two other people.

"This?" A slim, colorful woman holds up the design.

You nod.

"As was foretold?" asks a dark, burly man.

"Yes." You did call ahead.

"Do you hail from the North, South, East, or West?" he asks.

"The Great Northwest, actually."

"We've been expecting you," says the colorful woman.

OK. You made the appointment days ago.

"Summon the council," she tells the man, who rushes off. You didn't realize a tattoo required City Hall's approval.

"This way." She leads you through dark curtains into an incense-choked room. You give them high marks for ambience, though the candlelight seems insufficient to the task.

She gestures for you to lie on a stone table. "Choose a hue for the dedication!"