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TattooLog

References, processes and ideas that guide my tattoo work. It’s a space to give context and clarity to the style and the thinking behind the designs.


Some Castles Are Just Ruins.

The tattoo was made at VOE Studio for the talented Vale, a regular customer—love her. It was her wish, and I absolutely loved the story behind it. Apparently, Mirów Castle has something to do with her childhood place in Poland—a memory tied to her roots. I felt honored to help bring that connection to her skin.

Some castles are just ruins.
But Mirów Castle is more than that—it’s a story caught between stone, shadow, and imagination.

It rises from a limestone hill in the Polish Jura, its jagged walls and crumbling towers like the bones of something ancient, something that refuses to disappear. Built in the 14th century as a lonely watchtower, it slowly grew into a fortress, standing guard over the kingdom’s fragile borders. But time, like an invading army, broke it down. The 17th century Swedish invasion—the brutal flood known as The Deluge—did the rest.

And that’s where the legend takes root.

They say that during those years, as Swedish forces swept through Poland, looting castles and churches, a man named Count Hieronim Kreutz chose not to flee. Instead, he prepared. The story goes that he gathered a team—trusted men sworn to silence—and together they carved secret underground chambers deep beneath Mirów Castle. They filled them with treasures: gold, silver, precious stones, family heirlooms—everything the count couldn’t bear to lose.

It’s the kind of story that feels like it grew up with the stones themselves. The Swedish soldiers arrived. The battle was lost. The castle fell into ruin. But the treasure? According to the legend, it stayed hidden, untouched, its secret sealed by the count’s death or disappearance. He took the map with him—if there ever was one.

What’s strange is that no one has ever found it. People have searched. People are still searching. But the underground chambers—if they exist—keep their silence.

Here’s the thing: there’s no proof that Count Hieronim Kreutz ever lived. No historical records mention him. There are no dusty archives, no family trees, no maps showing secret tunnels. Historians say he’s a ghost of the story, a beautiful invention. What we know for sure is that Mirów Castle stood, that the Swedish soldiers came, that the walls were broken and abandoned.

But maybe that’s why the legend survives. Maybe we need it to. Mirów Castle is already a ruin—what’s left is the mystery, the possibility that treasure still sleeps beneath the rubble. It’s not really about the gold anymore. It’s about the pull of the story itself.

That’s what drew me in. I haven’t been able to forget the image of that nobleman sealing away his treasure, a man who might never have existed, protecting something that might never have been real. It’s not just a local fairy tale—it’s a little window into how we hold on to hope, to secrets, to the romance of the past. And maybe, just maybe, the count is still down there, his legend echoing beneath the limestone.

Mirów Castle stands as it always has—silent, waiting, unfinished.

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