Dear Warlock,
I know of your errand.
You know, the one you took when you hoofed your way into the woods with my soulmate’s karmic lover. Remember? Your magical vows you scattered to the winds across the trees, the ones Feathers heard you chant and repeat. You and his karmic lover, both envious of his heart-felt love for me, of our shared power not yet lived, proved yourselves to be soulless trash.
You and that stand-in mannequin karmic both planned to break him, break me. You wanted my soulmate to reject his love for me and that he did. He trusted you. He trusted her. You cursed us.
She had only been a karmic pass-around whore who played into my soulmate’s lustful eyes of necessitudes. She was his squatter, his server. She turned to you, didn’t she? She paid you in gold for you to ritualize and reverse our divine contract, didn’t she? Thereafter, she let her guard down with you as quickly and quietly as a panty drop.
Oh, you think I don’t know about that, too? Your paid-laid?
You chose war.
You like games, right? Do you want to play games? Here’s one.
Since you like reading tarot cards and all things pentacles, read this.
What will you and your whore get from having repeatedly drawn the Tower and the three of swords?
Karma.
Black Cat Words 