The Book of Black Lattices. An entirely too learned curiosity. [+ Creeping Shadows]

You are an Occultist.

It began with rumours. A library behind the library, funded by HIM or by the church or by darker powers still. Then came bribes. You graded papers for a colleague, attended the socials everyone else shirked, and you paid actual money to the student stacking the shelves where you guessed the hidden entrance would be.

The book eluded you. You were an academic then, unused to sulking in the dark. But you replaced innocence with experience. Dark corridors became your friends, and your gaunt face and piercing eyes grew accustomed to the night. In time, you found the secret vault and the knowledge contained within. The book no longer eluded you.

They did not fire you, not exactly. You were never caught, and it is no crime to steal what does not exist. But they whispered behind your back, and they pointed at your form – changed by the dark of night and by the light of wisdom. You no longer taught classes, and nothing you wrote then would ever be published.

So you left.

The bursar lists you as on sabbatical. The holiday is unpaid of course, and rumour has you working for Heron College. You sometimes encourage those whispers, but most times you don’t bother. The Sea of Mists has called you.

And you have answered.

You gave the offering of fat, and you followed the tread of cat. You listened to the song of bat and gave the sacrifice of rat. The raging waters revealed wonders to you – and horrors. You chained yourself to the mast until thirst brought lights, and until your fevered imagination showed you the tree.

You have been at Sea ever since.