What the ♥♥♥♥ did you just ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ say about me, you Profane turd? I’ll have you know I'm the Initiated Gyrecarl of my Quadrigia in the Nameless Companie of the Serpent Cross, and I've been involved in numinous clandestine Esbats of the Synastral Covine and I have over 300 confirmed recitations of the mantic formulæ. I am trained in the Rites of the Crooked Path and I'm the top Karcist in Blood-Acre entire. You are nothing to me but just another False Idol for the Iconoclast. I will wipe you the hell out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before through the Mysts of Elphame, mark this ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ Wytchtonge. You think you can get away with saying that ♥♥♥♥ to me over the internet, think again, Opfer. As we speak I am skrying my secret bloodline of the Mighty Dead across the Eld and your Aetheryic Residuum is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, muggle. The storm of Wytchfyre that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your praxis. You’re ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ dead, Childe. My Shadow Selves can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my Rootwork. Not only am I extensively trained in Wortcunning, but I have access to the entire manuscript archive of Alogos Dhul'Qarnen Khidir, and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable speculations off the face of the occult publishing market, you little ♥♥♥♥. If only you could have known what Draconian retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have nailed your damn tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you stupid idiot. I will throw Abrosial Poison all over you and you will drown in it. You’re ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ Exiled, hedgewitch.