A few years ago I found an old hardback tome of Solitaire rulesets on a garden wall. It was a bright, unambiguously pleasant day and I remember thinking 'oh, that's the wotsit that inspired those regency thingamajigs'. So I took it home and tried my hand at a few variations, then forgot about the book entirely. After reading about Occlude, I can only wish my discovery had been more ominous, more foreboding. Why couldn't I have found the book in a secret cellar, its hastily painted-over entrance given away by the motion of air through a dream-catcher? Why couldn't it have been thrust upon me by a desperate man with hypnotic tattoos, pushed into my hands with a precautionary mutter to 'Ware The Onyx Triangle?'
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