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Ever since I can remember, I've enjoyed creating board games, RPGs, and tabletop games in general. As a kid, during vacations at my grandparents' house, I created a knock-off of Settlers of Catan to play with my cousin. Good times. Currently, I have a few projects I'm working on, and I got the chance to finish one of them. I found a One Page Game Jam on Instagram. I probably don't need to explain what a game jam is - everyone who wanted to participate had a limited time to finish a game that fits on one page. Here's my project. Compact Creature Combat is a one-page game inspired by some pocket monsters, promoting kitbashing or toybashing. Each player prepares 3 creatures that will battle in an arena. I need to point out a few things. Firstly, these one-page rules are intended to be part of a larger game. Eventually, there will be more special abilities, and it will be possible to catch and upgrade different creatures, etc. Secondly, the game has not been tested in any way other than in my mind. I didn't have the time or energy for proper (or any) playtesting. Thirdly... well, nothing really. Big thanks to The Hobby Dungeon for organizing this jam. This game, along with about 50 other games and game supplements, will be featured in an online zine and also in a limited print edition. If you try out this game, please let me know, e.g., on Instagram!

Rarely do I feel a true, vast, and unstoppable power emanating from a certain place. Recently, I experienced this feeling while exploring Saxon Switzerland, a mountain range in southeastern Germany, extending further into the Czech Republic. The mountains aren't very high, so they're accessible even to novice striders like myself. At the same time, the area offers a diverse landscape with incredible cliffs and rock formations formed by the slow erosion of sandstone prevalent there. But I don't want to talk about geology and geography, although those are interesting topics as well. In that place, you could feel a mass of emotions emanating from the ground, from the surrounding rocks and forests. One particular place struck me like a hammer, leaving me breathless. It happened on one of the summits, to reach it you had to climb a narrow metal ladder in a small crevice between the rocks. There on the top grew an oak tree. A huge, sprawling oak. And at its roots, there was a kind of niche. This hollow, at the top of the mountain, at the feet of the mighty oak, drew me in like a magnet. I sat down in it and surrendered to meditation. Half an hour passed in the blink of an eye. I felt surges of energy, emotions, or perhaps mana, flowing through me. Mana in the original, Polynesian sense - the trace that ancestors leave behind on objects and places for their descendants. While I had previously struggled with my own spirituality, it seems to me that at that moment I truly experienced a kind of inspiration. Only later, after exploring more of these mountains and reading about their history, did I understand what I truly felt. Like most of the areas in today's eastern Germany, this region was originally inhabited by Slavs, and then colonized by German settlers between the 12th and 14th centuries. Additionally, the Elbe River valley was an important trade route, and countless castles were scattered on the peaks; fortresses of bandits and nobles, though the difference between the two is truly minor. All this conflict, all this spilled blood seems to gather in the Elbe Valley, washed into it with the rains. Is this bad? Is it a place of evil, negative power? It doesn't seem like it to me. Such events themselves are not a guarantee of evil spirits, they merely blur the boundaries between the worlds. Sitting under the oak tree and absorbing what surrounded me, I felt no fear or sorrow. Before my eyes, I saw people sitting where I sit, in a circle around the fire. The eldest among them told stories to the younger ones, giving advice and warnings. This is what kind of Place of Power it is. A Place of Council and Wisdom. I recommend to all seeking spiritual enlightenment to make a pilgrimage to Saxon Switzerland, find the great oak tree at the summit, and engage in solitary meditation.

Most Esteemed Colleague, Dear Jan, We are informing you about the course of treatment of Mr. Krzysztof Malicki on November 12, 2023. Diagnosis: Exitus letalis due to hemorrhagic shock Chronic Diseases: Atherosclerosis Coronary artery disease Aortocoronary bypass surgery, 11/2023, alio loco Multiple strokes due to basilar artery occlusion (2007, 2009, 2015, 2022) Locked-in syndrome Course of treatment: Mr. Malicki was admitted to the Emergency Room due to sudden bleeding from a tracheotomy performed elsewhere. The patient was not known to our hospital, and the treatment documentation provided by the paramedics was incomplete. In the ambulance, the patient received an intravenous ampoule of tranexamic acid and inhalations of adrenaline. Upon admission to the ER, the bleeding had significantly subsided due to these interventions. After the removal of the cannula from the trachea, the bleeding intensified significantly. The on-call anesthesiologist, trauma surgeon, and thoracic surgeon were urgently notified. The patient was transferred to Operating Room No. 7. Sixteen units of universal red blood cell concentrate were prepared. Initial examination did not reveal an obvious source of the bleeding. In the absence of known neoplastic changes, we ruled out erosive bleeding. From the incomplete medical history, it was deduced that recent aortocoronary bypass surgery, commonly known as a bypass, had been performed. In the absence of other suspicions, we decided to perform a thoracotomy to locate the source of the bleeding. At this point, the suction reservoirs contained approximately five liters of fluid. A distinctive, metallic smell filled the air, and oddly enough, it could also be tasted on the tongue. The on-call thoracic surgeon, Dr. Niedziela, made a central incision with a scalpel along the entire length of the sternum. Further dissection was performed using a monopolar blade, and the sternum was cut with an oscillating saw. The bleeding increased exponentially after cutting the sternum. The source of the bleeding was still not identifiable; we did not see any open blood vessels. Blood was pouring out of the cut sternum in liters, flowing over the patient and the operating table like a waterfall, quickly leaving the surgical team ankle-deep in the red fluid. After inserting the chest spreader, the bleeding intensified further, revealing an expansive, unending sea of red. The fully opened chest cavity turned out to be barely a keyhole, or the eye of a needle, compared to the view we encountered inside. The ribs seemed to continue caudally like the vault of a grotesque Gothic cathedral, extending through the abdominal cavity, lower limbs, the operating room, and even further. Adjusting the lighting did not allow us to determine the exact depth of the chest cavity. We were unable to identify the heart, aorta, superior vena cava, lungs, or other orientational structures or organs. The source of the ongoing bleeding was also not apparent. When the blood pouring from the opened sternum reached halfway up our calves, Dr. Jóźwiak, the on-call trauma surgeon, decided to palpate the inside of the chest cavity. He reached his hand inside. His arm disappeared almost up to the shoulder in the patient. After a few seemingly endless seconds, the operator let out a cry, which could be described as a mixture of triumph and disgust, informing the team that he "had something" and that "it was putting up a good fight." At this point, Dr. Jóźwiak was pulled into the opening, his coat tearing on the ribs protruding like blunt, jagged teeth. Together, the team managed to pull Dr. Jóźwiak out of the patient. In his hand, he held a mass composed of muscle and connective tissue, gently pulsating and writhing in the operator's grip. This lump was interwoven with numerous torn blood vessels, two to three centimeters wide. The fleshy tubes protruded in every direction, moving slightly as if looking around and searching for something in the room. In the areas where the vessels were torn closer to the mass, the sight resembled a grotesque Swiss cheese. Inspecting these openings gave the impression that they led to an endless void, the depths of nothingness itself. Waterfalls of blood poured out, drenching the operator in further liters of sticky, thick blood. The bleeding stopped after making several deep cuts into the held mass with a scalpel. The movements of the lump also ceased. The chest bleeding stopped shortly after the mass was removed. At the same time, there was a rapidly progressing bradycardia followed by a cessation of circulation. Attempts to restore circulation with catecholamines and electrical cardioversion were unsuccessful. We regret to pronounce the death of Mr. Malicki on November 12, 2023, at 23:14. Histopathological examination of the mass did not show cancerous changes. We identified heart muscle cells with blood vessels, but the exact dimensions or number of vessels could not be determined. The post-accident team did not find any permanent health damage in Dr. Jóźwiak. The incident protocol was drawn up and handed over to the responsible authorities. Sincerely, Prof. Dr M. Juszczyk Head of the Trauma Surgery Clinic Dr M. Jóźwiak Traumatologist M.A.G. Jagielski Resident

The old hunting stand stands alone in the open field. A field? Here, yes, indeed, but over there? Behind it? Does the field stretch further behind the wooden structure... I wouldn't be so sure. What then? My legs carry me on their own, driven by such a very human curiosity. I pass the wood blackened from the oily preservative. I enter and see... A sea of fog. Endless whiteness. Coldness. Dampness. Somehow "dark and gloomy" come to mind, but it's not dark. I can see my hands, feet, the ground I walk on... But not where I'm going. Who knows what lies in that visible darkness. Suddenly, this thick, milky silence is pierced by someone's scream. Someone's? Was it even a human scream? I don't know what's worse and I prefer not to find out. I turn on my heel. Fog. But I had only taken a few steps in! I started walking in whichever direction as there were no directions to discern. I had already resigned myself to the end when I saw the hunting stand in the distance. Shining with the blackness of the wood like a lighthouse. I ran. I ran through the softened, plowed field, as fast as my body could manage. I don't know how much time has passed, but under the posts of the hunting platform, I fell to the ground and lost consciousness. I woke up in the hospital. I don't leave the house when it's foggy anymore. Thank god for hybrid work. Photos taken in December 2022, in the fields near the town of Groß Glienicke. I often visit this area and this solitary hunting stand has been catching my attention for some time. One day, the weather was perfect for taking pictures. A light frost and milky fog. On the same day, I took more photographs, which I hope to publish on this site in the future.

Recently, I read a text about, in short, people's strange approach to spending money in the digital world. The author was puzzled, among other things, why she and many others have a problem spending 4 euros on a movie on one of the streaming platforms, but are willing to spend 20 euros on the same movie in the cinema or on a physical medium. Personally, I was surprised why the author was surprised by this state of affairs, and I was really taken aback when her conclusion was "let's buy more apps and digital goods instead of real ones!". On the other hand, I shouldn't be surprised, given that the magazine in which this text was published was aimed at young startup entrepreneurs. But let's take a few steps back and consider both reactions. Let's start with the author. From a certain perspective, her reaction is fully justified. If we look at the example given from a purely mathematical, dry point of view, she is absolutely right. By buying fully digital media, you get the same product for a lower price. Heck! You can open it on a multitude of devices; anywhere; it doesn't take up space because it's a stream of zeros and ones in a mystical cloud, or on a portable USB drive. Pure. Objective. Advantages. One could even argue that it's an ecological option because no materials were used to produce that copy of the movie or any other medium. No plastic for packaging, no expensive recording processes on a chosen medium. In the case of something like a Blu-ray, we also save additionally on a specialized player, which costs money, and when it stops working, it becomes expensive electronic waste. However, in my opinion, one must not approach this issue purely mathematically. Dividing the number of views by the money spent. Why? Let's start with an equally dry approach as the mathematical one, namely ownership matters. I don't know if this fact is familiar to dear readers, but a significant portion of digital media you "own" doesn't actually belong to you. But how come, someone may be offended, I paid for it! Well, you did pay for it, but there are two things standing in the way. Firstly, many platforms (e.g., Steam gaming platform) have in their contracts, which we all accept without reading 20 pages of text, written that media acquired on the platform is only borrowed for an indefinite period. This means that access can be cut off or limited at any whim, ads may be inserted, etc. In practice, of course, this means little; as far as I know, there haven't been any major movements or consequences related to this state of affairs so far. But in the age of streaming platforms looking for new sources of income, I see potential threats to consumption comfort. And Amazon ads are supposed to start in February and be removed only for an additional fee. Welcome to late stage capitalism. Secondly, when it comes to product ownership, the product generally isn't on the medium from which it's being received. Sure, downloading a game from the internet through Steam or Epic puts it on your hard drive, but the installation files, which are actually important, are not. You only have a digital copy of the game, not the game itself. With movies and TV shows, it's even worse. Not without reason are they called "streaming platforms". The movie flows to your phone or TV like a smooth stream and just as smoothly, with a small buffer, it leaves. Sure, sometimes you can download a movie for a specific time. Wow. Only for it to delete itself after 3 days. But all of this is a dry response to dry facts. And dry facts hardly interest me, so let's focus on a slightly more emotional side. I don't understand how going to the cinema can be compared to watching a movie on the couch. Let me quote my favorite chimpanzee with a Latin name: "It's one thing to eat candies from a bag, and it's another thing to eat a mountain of sugar." Going to the cinema is, well... going out. You have to dress up, meet friends, interact with people. Not to mention the completely different quality of the movie and sound. Comparing the cinema to the couch is completely off the mark for me. But maybe it's just me. Similarly, I'm afraid it's just me when it comes to comparing a movie on a platform like Amazon to a movie on a physical medium like DVD, Blu-ray, cassette, or any other wax cylinder of our times. Returning to the purely practical aspect, such a medium can be played anytime, anywhere (assuming you have a player), regardless of internet access. You can copy it, lend it to someone. Heck, you can even sell it. And of course, here comes the emotional aspect of collecting. We as humanity like to have things. Our whole capitalist system is based on our desire to own and collect things through our consumerism. Regarding consumerism, ecology, and similar arguments, let me add something else. For the sake of honesty, I have no idea what the exact energy costs are to produce one copy of a m ovie on, let's say, a DVD, but I know that producing the same movie on your screen via the internet is also not free. This movie sits somewhere on a server. The server needs to be supplied with electricity, cooled, monitored, and repaired. Then, it has to be transmitted to you via cables or satellite. Which also costs energy and money. I repeat, I don't know what these costs are, and how they relate to the costs of producing one disc with a movie, and when these two graphs would intersect. But one must remember that the internet and computational power are not free! The laws of thermodynamics reach everything and everyone. Targeting another digital product: cryptocurrencies are currently one of the largest producers of greenhouse gases. All because of a mass of mining computers processing countless computations for the glory of money. When it comes to these topics, I highly recommend Low Tech Magazine. A blog powered by solar panels, dealing with simple solutions to complex problems. Sometimes problems that our ancestors solved a long time ago. The whole idea of this blog is to reduce the energy and ecological costs of running the website. But let's return for a moment to the article that started this whole discourse. As another comparison, the author of the original text takes a notebook/calendar from Rossman for 7 euros and an organizing app for a similar price. In this case, the app will absolutely perform its task better, but the app is not there. You can't touch it, smell it, or lick it. In every aspect except one, the app doesn't exist. Because one must remember one thing. Despite our lives increasingly existing in a digital, online world, especially as someone working from home, or in the broad sense of IT, we are still physical, fleshy beings. It is much easier and more pleasant for us to interact with things we can see and touch. Deep down, we prefer going out to meet people by going to a movie or wandering between bookshelves to pick out a book at the bookstore. And please don't think that I am some anti-technological luddite, or a forest hermit without a phone. I grew up with the internet and I've made several websites myself. Some of my best childhood memories are associated with computer games. I realize the usefulness and magnificence of advancing digitization. I don't want you to think that I'm a

One of my great passions is inventing rules for board games, wargames, and RPGs. Some time ago, I started working on a campaign for Frostgrave, a splendid skirmish wargame by Joseph McCullough (whose blog I highly recommend). Within this campaign, after discussions with friends, I decided to create a scenario emulating the good old dungeon crawl. Although I must say that personally, I've never had much to do with this type of game, and I wasn't a huge fan of the concept. Unless we're talking about games from the Diablo series, which, like every Polish youngster of my generation, I had to experience (necromancer 4 life). Either way, I'm open to new experiences, so let's see what time will bring when it comes to analogue, tabletop dungeon delves. Not to waste any more of your time; here are the rules for you to download and test out free of charge. You will find a 10 page PDF full of rules to make and explore your own dungeon, cave, sewer or whatever. To be honest only about 2 pages are actual scenario rules, with the rest being additional, optional rules and tables. A propos extras- I'd be extremely happy if you would answer a few questions about the scenario, so that i can make it better. It won't take more than 5 minutes. The scenario is still being worked on, so your opinion is extremely important! Thank you in advance. Have fun!

*This is an amateur translation of the original piece found on the Polish version of the blog. A rag effigy of a woman on a wooden stick leads a procession of almost equally ragged people. Her head was wrapped in old cloth, a grim, deathly face painted with charcoal and chalk. She was dressed in an old, once-white shirt trimmed with a red ribbon. The ribbon on the sleeves, torn and frayed, brought to mind the bloodied arms of an executioner or butcher. The doll stared ahead, unwillingly, towards the lake pier, where it was to end its existence. A person with a vivid imagination might see a tear welling up beneath the painted eye. Those more grounded would say it was dew shaken from passing spruces. And there was plenty of dew as the column marched through the grove. They trod step by step, heavily planting their feet. Some barefoot, some only in footwraps, few in woven bark sandals. They were just men, gazing toward the shimmering water at the end of the woods, each face drawn in solemn gravity. The path was lit by juniper incense. Branches full of resin, rolled into bundles, slowly smoldered, warding off unfriendly forest spirits. Hopefully. The Marzanna, as the effigy was called, was carried by a young man, a boy almost, with sandy hair and a sparse, short mustache. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. You could almost hear him swallow nervously. He felt the weight and responsibility of the task entrusted to him. For the first time in his life, someone else's fate lay in his hands. After this dreadful winter, bloody as the sleeves of the carried doll, the concentrated hope of the whole village rested on Wszemił. The lad glanced furtively to the side, towards the needle-covered thicket. Is it...? No, no, it can't be... He turned his gaze back to the front. They told him - don't look aside. Don't look back. Especially after the rag doll has already sunk. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple, through his cheekbone, to stop at his lips. He instinctively swallowed the sweat. An acrid, salty taste of liquid struck his dried-out mouth. He dared another glance towards the trees. He saw yellow eyes, watching him from above the wolf's saliva-dripping muzzle. Wolf. Wolves. The whole pack followed the procession, sticking only to the edge of the trees, cautiously treading in the shadow. Wszemił's heart skipped a beat or two. Wolves. They hadn't been seen in the area for quite a few years, and now the entire hungry, emaciated pack was trailing the procession of emaciated, hungry men. Cold sweat increasingly soaked the youth's forehead and neck. He tried not to pay attention to the monstrous menagerie, but the glowing, yellow eyes attracted his gaze like a moth to a candle. And just as quckly as the moth burns in the flame, the column of men could end here and now with Marzanna still in hand. Trying not to lose his composure, Wszemił tried delicately to get the attention of Wuk, the elder of the village, walking on his right side. Wuk stared firmly ahead. It was he who ordered the boy not to look anywhere but towards the lake, and he himself adhered to his own advice. The young and desperate man had already opened his cracked lips to say... "Hush!" the elder interrupted him with a quiet hiss. "Eyes forward. Mouth shut." Wszemił's saliva was as thick as tar. To relieve his restless eyes from the approaching pier, he looked up at the carried doll. It bounced in rhythm with the steps, time after time. Hay protruded through the holes in the ragged clothing, which fell out with each stronger shake, leaving a small trail behind the procession. Every now and then, the doll was brushed by smoke from the carried incense. The boy stared blankly at the increasingly blurred face of the doll. The combination of movement, water, smoke, hunger, and fear began to play tricks on Wszemił. With each passing second of staring, the dead, ghastly visage of the doll came to life. The old canvas stretched like rubber, as if something was trying to break free from the doll's head. At times, it seemed as if the specter had indeed escaped its confines, as if the painted face had become truly alive. No, un-alvie. In an instant, Wszemił saw a woman as old as the world itself. With thin, sparse, gray hair falling in disheveled tufts on her face. With eye sockets and lips empty and dark as night. At the same time, he saw the reflection of the universe in them. In that brief gaze, he saw all the known stars and planets, as well as those that would remain undiscovered for a long time. He paled. He became as white as birch trees, which incidentally were increasingly taking the place of conifers. Wuk noticed it, who delivered him a sharp jab to the ribs. "Come on! Focus! I don't want to regret letting you carry the Death Doll! Look down or towards the water... Not much longer." Like he said, so it was. The grove quickly ended, its place taken by loosely growing birches and willows, their roots dipping into the waters of the lake. It was a new moon, and the water seemed black as pitch. Stars reflected in its clear surface; much like in the eyes of the specter-Marzanna. Tonight was exceptionally suitable for such witchcraft. A new moon, a time of transformations, a time of endings and new beginnings. With uncertain steps, Wszemił stepped onto the pier. Meanwhile, the elder of the village gathered the juniper torches and bundled them into one large bunch, billowing sharp, resinous smoke. He slowly approached the youth, who now turned to face the crowd. Wuk looked straight at the boy. The old man's eyes seemed ordinary, blue, slightly bloodshot, but at the same time empty, drained of life, happiness, emotions. Wszemił momentarily averted his gaze from the elder of the village. He looked at the crowd. The people, with whom he shared bread, in the dim light of the stars and the smoking juniper looked like strangers. Empty gaze, sunken cheeks. Powerlessness. Anticipation. Behind them, obediently lined up in another row, stood the wolves. All the while, on the edge of the grove, their eyes shone brighter, glimmering like will-o'-the-wisps dancing over marshes. Among the wolves, however, a figure... A person, or...? "Death Doll! Marzanna! Oh Lady of Winter and Cold that freezes our bones!" Wuk howled, diverting the youth's attention from the unexpected guests. "You've given us a hard time this year. Three of our youngest, four of our oldest, and one in the prime of their life, may the earth be light upon them," the elder spat into the water. "Not a grain left for the Kolach-bread to honor Jarowit's glory, only for the fields to sow in spring, and barely that. Death Doll! Marzanna! Greedy wench. Go to Veles, and do not return until the leaves turn golden again," at this moment, Wuk pressed the torch to the white dress, and it caught fire in an instant. Wszemił could swear he heard a hellish roar. "Veles! Lord of cattle and abundance! King of Nav!" "Glory to you!" the crowd repeated like a mantra, "Glory to Veles!" Wuk continued, "We have nothing to please you with, your lover has taken everything from us already. So take her with all our prosperity to your kingdom," the elder signaled to the boy. Wszemił once again swallowed his thickened saliva. Until now, he had only thought he heard strange, corpse-like moans. Now he was certain of it. He looked at the doll. This time, it wasn't just the face moving. The entire figure writhed in the flames. Bound to the physical form of the burning doll, suffering from the licking flames but unable to escape. The monster wriggled like a fly in thick honey, distorting reality until it nearly broke. The crowd's chanting didn't cease; it even intensified. Absolute chaos reigned in the youth's mind; the cacophony of noise plunged him into total helplessness. "By Perun!!! Throw her before she breaks free!!!" Wuk shouted and pushed Wszemił. He didn't dare take matters into his own hands. He wouldn't dare disrupt the already disrupted ritual in such a significant way. The boy finally shook himself out of it. He more or less let go of the stick with the burning doll rather than actually throw it into the lake. The doll rebounded off the pier, scattering sparks in all directions. One of them struck the youth on the cheek. Wszemił winced in pain and grabbed his face with a hiss. At the same time, he heard the words of the elder of the village. "Here is the end of winter! Hail Jarowit! Hail Dziewanna! We invite you to this world, descend and bring abundance, health, and the birth of new life! We invite you!" The crowd changed the mantra, "We invite you! We invite..." "Follow this juniper torch," Wuk slowly raised the smoldering juniper incense from the evergreen branches, which ignited anew. At that moment, Wszemił looked up. On the pier, or rather above it, he saw two strange figures. A young man with broad shoulders and a beautiful woman with a smooth face, dancing in the fire held by Wuk. The boy slowly got to his feet. There was no trace of the wolves. The elder strode along the pier, and the crowd parted. Wuk entered the forest and ran on. It took Wszemił a moment to collect himself, and he slowly began to follow in his footsteps. He placed one foot in front of the other, but soon noticed that the procession had closed in front of him and was quickly gaining speed. The walk turned into a jog, and then into a full sprint. Everyone followed the torch, which was getting farther and farther away. Wszemił was surprised by Wuk's briskness, a man who had complained incessantly about his creaking knees. Now, no one could keep up with him. Meanwhile, the clamor from the lake slowly diminished in strength but not in desperation. Was no one else hearing it, or did the entire village possess such strong willpower that they paid it no heed? Wszemił was tempted to look, tempted indeed, but he had seen enough. He focused on the torch. He had never been the strongest or the fastest in the village, and now it showed. He lagged so far behind that he could barely see the torch. Absolute darkness reigned in the forest, and he was fixated on the fire, which was just a tiny star at the end of the wooded tunnel. Therefore, he didn't notice the root that seemed to deliberately slip under his foot. He fell. Everything fell silent. No more clamor from the Death Doll, no more trampling of men, no insects buzzing, no gust of wind. He didn't dare to get up right away. He waited. "Get up, boy...!" he heard. It wasn't a pleasant voice. It sounded as if someone was knocking branches against each other, as if someone was breaking hollow stumps with heavy footsteps. Wszemił still didn't dare to move. "Get up now! You're mine!" he heard again. He rose, or rather, he was lifted up as if by a puppeteer. He looked around. He was still in the same forest, but... different. The air was murky. Not misty, but murky, opaque, disturbed. The trees seemed black, the leaves and needles gray, drained of life. Before him loomed a figure, or rather, a creature, which seemed to be giving him these imperious commands. The creature was a tangle of writhing thorns and vines, in a more or less human form. A pair of beetles climbed up his rooted leg, taking their places in the eye sockets. Worms and maggots adorned his arms and shoulders like a grotesque fur. He opened his mouth in a hideous parody of a smile. Blueberry teeth gleamed blackly. "What do we have here? What shall I turn you into? An owl? A beetle? Hmmm... Young, foolish, disobedient... You'll fit into my pack! Ha! Yes, indeed!" the wooden monster extended its thorny hand towards Wszemił's face. "You'll make a good wolf! Ha-ha! Another herder and guardian for my menagerie! But..." At that moment, the demon howled in pain. It howled like the wind whistling on a stormy night. Wszemił felt heat on his cheek where the spark had struck him. In a puddle at the edge of the road, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own reflection. Under his right eye, he had a mark - a cross with smaller crosses at the ends. The mark glowed like iron pulled straight from the forge. The boy instinctively touched his own cheek. It was cold. The scream of the vine-like creature soon turned into maniacal laughter, and then into words. "You're lucky, young one! Although, I'm not sure if it's really luck, ha-ha-ha!" His laughter resembled a creaking floor underfoot. "You've avoided one curse by invoking another, more powerful one. So go into the world, Marked One! I won't interfere with my mother's plans. She seems to have something other in her mind for you," the demon laughed again, sounding somewhat deranged. From his raucous laughter, the beetles fell out of his eye sockets, the worms scattered, and the vines unraveled and penetrated the ground. The only trace of the forest creature were thirty-two blueberries arranged on the ground in a sardonic smile. Wszemił fainted. He was awakened by the morning dew dripping on his forehead.

*This is an amateur translation of the original piece found on the Polish version of the blog. Most esteemed Colleague, Dear Jan, We would like to inform you about the course of treatment of Mr. Robert Skiba, born on December 15, 1991. The treatment took place in our hospital between September 5, 2017, and September 21, 2017. Diagnosis: Chronic dependence on a respirator due to severe obsessive-compulsive disorder Medical history: Substance abuse (THC) Paranoid schizophrenia Tonsillectomy circa 1998 Course of treatment: Mr. Skiba voluntarily admitted himself to the psychiatric ward of our hospital with suspected recurrence of previously diagnosed paranoid schizophrenia. The patient suffered from a compulsion of "leaving the world a better place." Through a thorough interview, we were able to rule out symptoms such as auditory hallucinations, derealization, or feeling controlled from outside. Mr. Skiba is well known in our center, and his medical history was available to us. Previous interviews conducted during relapses of the illness indicated significant persecutory delusions, visual and auditory hallucinations, as well as a strong sense of being externally controlled. The aforementioned desire to improve the world seemed to come directly from the patient in a manner uncharacteristic of schizophrenia. The reason for his admission to our hospital was not the unfamiliarity of this kind of compulsion, but rather his previously unknown affinity with it. During this interview, we tentatively diagnosed obsessive-compulsive disorder. Due to Mr. Skiba's socio-economic situation, we decided to initiate inpatient treatment. The patient received Citalopram 10 mg daily, with the dose to be increased weekly until optimal effects were achieved. We initiated cognitive-behavioral group psychotherapy under the supervision of our psychotherapist, Mr. Marcin Kulesza. The previous dosage of antipsychotic medications remained unchanged, with the patient receiving 20 mg of Aripiprazole daily. On September 6, 2017, the patient repaired a leaky window in his room by tightening the adjustment screws with a butter knife. The next day, he began working on a leaking shower. He cut the gasket from his rubber flip-flop with a nail scissors. In the following days, he started wandering between the rooms of other patients, sequentially replacing leaking gaskets. He went to the last room barefoot, having completely cut up his footwear. Attempts to stop Mr. Skiba always ended in aggression. The antipsychotic medications were adjusted, and Aripiprazole was increased to 25 mg/day. The patient only attended psychotherapy sessions to neatly arrange leaflets and auxiliary materials on the shelves. The patient showed visible signs of exhaustion, both physically and mentally. His face lost expression day by day, and his skin grew paler. Soon, it resembled a pale canvas stretched over a marble mask in the shape of a human face. Physically pulled away from work, the patient habitually continued the same hand movements in the air. Only after some time did he begin to turn his cold, motionless face towards the obstacle. He looked straight into the eyes, without blinking or moving a single facial muscle. His icy gaze was inescapable, with empty, cold, almost glassy eyes relentlessly following whoever disturbed him. Aripiprazole was increased to 30 mg/day, and Citalopram was prematurely increased to 20 mg/day. The patient refused to eat or drink. Feeding and medication administration occurred when the patient was focused on his work. Only then, almost automatically, would he allow himself to be fed and given medication. Attempts were made to administer fluids intravenously; initially, Mr. Skiba agreed to this compromise. His agreement ended when all the wheels of all the IV stands were oiled or replaced, and all screws were tightened. According to our findings, the patient was not visited during this time, and we were unable to identify the source of the replacement parts. When asked why he continued his work, he only replied, "I must." Finally, after days of chronic illness, his eyes sank. Wrinkled and yellowed like dried apricots. From continuous work, the skin began to peel from his hands, but no connective tissue or muscles protruded from under the skin. The wounds did not bleed or seem to hurt. "I must," he repeated. "I must," nothing more. Attempts to dress his mutilated hands ended in aggression and that terrifying, empty, piercing gaze. All humanity behind those eyes disappeared, no shadow of understanding or soul. "I must." After a long discussion between the heads of the psychiatric and neurological clinics, Aripiprazole was increased to 50 mg/day, well above the recommended dose. Citalopram was prematurely increased to 60 mg/day, the maximum dose. On September 17, 2017, an incident occurred during another attempt to dress the wounds by the trauma nurse. Mrs. Nowicka had not previously met the patient and was sent to him after a surgical consultation. According to Mrs. Nowicka's testimony, the patient did not respond to her questions and was uncooperative. The nurse decided to grab his hand and forcibly pull him away from adjusting the medication cabinet doors. His arm was cold and smooth to the touch, like polished stone. Like a worn-out railing, slippery from a thousand touches. His skin was pale and marbled, crossed with thin black veins, unlike anything found in an anatomy textbook. The nurse could feel bones, tendons, and muscles, but they seemed to move spontaneously beneath the diseased skin. Moving in a way muscles, and especially bones, shouldn't. This movement was slow, like a sliding tectonic plate, but disturbingly perceptible. Initially, the patient did not react to the nurse's pulling, continuing mechanical hand movements. Only after several attempts did he turn his gaze to the woman. "I must," he said. There was no sorrow, sadness, joy, or any other emotion in that word. "I must." On September 17, 2017, Mr. Skiba tore the right arm off of trauma nurse Teresa Nowicka. We attempted to sedate the agitated patient. He received a total of 20 mg of Haloperidol intramuscularly. This slowed the patient enough to attempt to insert an IV cannula. Cannulas of standard sizes pierced the skin, but were unable to penetrate further tissue. Using a larger diameter cannula still did not locate blood vessels. We decided to perform intraosseous access in the tibia. The patient received muscle relaxants and sedatives, was intubated, and transferred to the intensive care unit in a pharmacological coma. Despite deep general anesthesia, the patient continued to make delicate hand movements, as if repairing things in his sleep. Attempts to wake him up immediately resulted in extreme agitation. The patient knew which items in the room were faulty and immediately went to them. Attempts to restrain him ended in extreme aggression and re-sedation. On September 20, 2017, a tracheotomy was performed. The next day, the patient was transferred to a hospice. Teresa Nowicka was treated urgently and survived her encounter with the patient. She was found to be completely unfit to work in her trained profession. Her arm could not be saved. An accident report was prepared and forwarded to the appropriate authorities. With best regards,