Deck Review: The Cracked Amethyst Tarot

The Cracked Amethyst Tarot is a deck I was VERY excited to see on Kickstarter! I own one of the creator Jessica Bott‘s other decks, the Bottanical Deck (it’s a botany-themed deck: 10/10 for punnage), and I had long admired her first deck, the Idiosyncradeck, but sadly it has been OOP for a long while. No more! (kinda). The Cracked Amethyst Tarot is essentially an Idiosyncradeck Reboot – new and improved, but with the same heart and soul that made the first version such a cult favourite among Tarot readers.

Back in 2014, Bott decided to learn to read Tarot, and, being a creative type, figured the best way to do that was to draw the cards herself. That experiment became her first deck, the Idiosyncradeck: a quirky, minimalist creation that quickly found a following when she shared her progress on Tumblr. What started as a personal learning tool soon snowballed into a small Tarot business. Over the next decade, Bott released several other decks, refined her artistic style, and quietly outgrew her early work. While the Idiosyncradeck remained beloved by Tarot readers and collectors, Bott herself found it hard to love; all she could see were the rough edges of her younger artist self. After years of requests to reprint it, she finally decided to revisit the project: not by recreating it exactly, but by redrawing it through the lens of a decade’s worth of growth and experience.

The result is the Cracked Amethyst Tarot: a reimagined, mature evolution of the Idiosyncradeck – and, fittingly, the bookend to Bott’s decade-long journey in Tarot creation. As she puts it, “We’re ending where we began, with my very first deck.”

The majority of the cards are essentially the same as the Idiosyncradeck, but have been redrawn in a more mature, detailed, and visually refined style. However, others have been completely reimagined (see above). Where Bott has taken that leap, it feels deliberate – a deeper, more nuanced engagement with each card’s meaning, inviting readers to really sit with its complexity. The Idiosyncradeck was charmingly cute; the Cracked Amethyst is quietly, assuredly beautiful.

In case you hadn’t guessed (lol), just like Bott, I genuinely prefer the Cracked Amethyst to the Idiosyncradeck. You can see how Bott has matured as an artist; the new deck feels elegant without fuss, detailed without chaos. Each card feels like a small world: landscapes, natural textures, and the comfort of the domestic. There’s an ease to the composition: clean lines, bright colours, and just enough glow to make the images feel alive without tipping into the hyper-saturated aesthetic that plagues some modern decks. It’s the kind of art that feels clear-headed, calm, and deeply usable.

I read someone post somewhere that the Cracked Amethyst feels like the spiritual successor to the Spacious Tarot, and I agree. I’m really falling for these scenic, landscape-based decks lately. They feel so expansive, as if they widen the space around you and open up your readings to something larger.

The Deck: Look, Feel, and Finish

The Cracked Amethyst Tarot shuffles cleanly, with that soft, almost rose-petal texture that gives just enough resistance between the cards. The silk-matte finish feels velvety to the touch, while the UV spot gloss (used sparingly on the borders and titles) catches the light in a way that feels subtle and deliberate, never showy. It’s one of those rare decks that’s just as satisfying to handle as it is to look at.

Physically, the production quality is impressive. The cards are printed on 350gsm art paper with a silk matte lamination that gives them that satisfying “buttery slip” that doesn’t glare under light. The high-gloss borders and card titles add just the right amount of contrast, catching the eye without looking flashy. I did find some of the foil lettering on the cards a little tricky to read depending on the light, but tilt the card and it flashes clearly into view. Edges are finished in a matte silver gilding, giving a little bit of shimmer when the deck catches the light; more moonlit glint than disco ball, thankfully.

The deck follows the Rider-Waite-Smith structure, with a twist: the suits become Cups, Stones (Pentacles), Arrows (Wands), and Swords, plus a single bonus card, bringing the total to seventy-nine. Everything arrives neatly housed in a sturdy magnetic-closure box with small black and white guidebook tucked inside.

The guidebook is equally distinctive: part sketchbook, part shorthand. Each card is paired with a line drawing and a few key words or phrases, enough to orient without over-explaining. Bott describes the guide as a visual map of her own thinking process: sometimes wordy, sometimes just a sketch or single line, always intuitive. “I think in pictures,” she writes, “and translating those pictures into words can be a difficult process. If you were to ask me what a certain card means, I would simply show you the card that I drew and say, ‘This. This is the card.’” If you’re familiar with the RWS system, you’ll find yourself right at home though, with no need for more detailed instructions. (Note: there’s a small print hiccup – the Six of Arrows [Wands] is mistakenly labelled as the Six of Swords in the guidebook – but it’s an easy enough slip to spot.)

Greatest Hits: My Favourite Cards from the Cracked Amethyst Tarot

And now some of my favourite cards from the Cracked Amethyst Tarot.

The Magician here appears as an oyster, opening slightly in murky water to reveal a shining pearl – a perfect image for the transformation at the heart of this card. It’s the ‘magic’ of how pearls appear, an irritant turned into some rare and wonderful. The transformation of life’s grit into wisdom. “For its early mote / Of grit / Reborn as orient moon,” writes the poet James Merrill on pearls – and that’s the Magician’s art exactly. He doesn’t conjure from nothing; he transmutes. What begins as pain or flaw is layered, refined, and turned into luminous knowing.

This is the Magician as craftsman rather than sorcerer: less effortless miracle, more practiced metamorphosis. It’s the same lineage that traces the card back to the mountebank, the street performer, the hustler: someone who makes wonder out of whatever’s at hand. The magic here isn’t innate; it’s earned. It’s the work of learning your tools, refining your skill, and transforming life’s raw material – its grit, its mess, its thousand little hurts – into something precious and radiant.

The High Priestess card shows a scene set deep underground, her realm formed from ancient stone and silence (a nice throw back to the Persephone in the Underworld link!) Stalagmites rise from the cave floor like crystal prongs, growing patiently through centuries beneath layers of rock. Yet far above her, we can glimpse the surface – a full moon suspended in a night sky alive with stars and the shimmer of the Northern Lights. In the distance, a small circle of standing stones echoes her own sacred stillness, a reminder that the mysteries below mirror those above.

Bott sets this card “in the time of dark and dreams,” and that phrase couldn’t be more fitting. The High Priestess here is less a veiled figure guarding a doorway and more an elemental presence – the slow, secret pulse of the earth itself. Everything about the scene speaks of deep time, of things gestating unseen, of intuition forming quietly in the dark before it surfaces into knowing.

The Empress in the Cracked Amethyst Tarot is a tree at the height of abundance – her branches heavy with fruit, her trunk alive with climbing fungi, and a nest of pale blue eggs tucked safely among the limbs. Around her roots, flowers bloom in profusion; her bark shelters knot-holes for owls, squirrels, whoever happens to need her. She is the great provider, a living ecosystem unto herself. The sky glows in soft pinks, that liminal hour where it could be dawn or dusk, sunrise or moonset. Either way, she nurtures both: light and dark, beginning and ending, the full cycle of life held within her canopy.

There’s a sense here of the seven fruits of the world, or of creation at its most fertile and interconnected: growth that feeds, shelters, and renews. Bott’s Empress isn’t simply maternal; she’s ecological. Everything flourishes in her orbit, and she reminds us that true care is both generous and wild.

With the Lovers, we move into the clear, bright light of day. The scene shows a single honeybee in a field of daisies. The bee and the flower need each other; theirs is a partnership of perfect reciprocity. It’s an image of love not as fantasy, but as ecosystem – connection that nourishes both sides. “Which flower will she pick?” Bott writes in her notes, bringing the element of choice back into focus. The Lovers is, after all, not just about romance but about decision: the act of choosing your heart’s path and committing to it fully. Whether that’s a person, a vocation, or a way of life, the message is the same – discern what truly feeds you, and offer yourself to it in return.

The Chariot takes the form of a waterfall, gushing down over the rocks and then rushing onwards with tremendous force. Bott describes it as “relentless, unstoppable,” and it truly is: a portrait of momentum made visible. There’s awe in that kind of power: the sheer determination of it, the refusal to slow or falter. But the card also carries a warning. The same current that propels us forward can just as easily sweep us away. Willpower can tip into compulsion; drive can harden into brute force. The Chariot reminds us that mastery isn’t just about speed or strength, but about steering – staying conscious within the rush. Harness the energy, by all means. Just don’t let it carry you somewhere you never meant to go.

The card also brought to mind the opening lines from an Elizabeth Bishop poem: “We’d rather have the iceberg than the ship, / although it meant the end of travel.” As critic John Palattella observes, Bishop cautions against “surrendering the necessary work of perception and comprehension for the seduction of revelation.” The same warning hums beneath this card – that real understanding comes not from the drama of epiphany, but from the patient, sometimes perilous work of truly seeing.

The Hermit here is shown from afar: a mist-veiled mountain beneath a night sky, tall pines crowding its lower slopes. Halfway up, a soft amber light glows from a cave – perhaps a campfire, perhaps the glow of the Hermit’s lantern writ large. How small it seems against the vast dark, and yet how cosy and welcoming. The Hermit is often imagined as austere, detached, almost cold – yet Bott’s version invites us to see solitude differently. That light in the cave is not just illumination; it’s warmth and refuge. The caverns of our souls can be warm places after all, places where insight brews gently, not in isolation but in peace. This Hermit doesn’t withdraw out of disdain for the world, but out of reverence for it. The mountain isn’t empty; it’s alive with stillness. The lantern burns on, steady and kind.

In the Cracked Amethyst Tarot, Death takes the form of a tree – perhaps even the same one we saw in The Empress – now reduced to a decaying stump. Yet even in decay, it teems with life. Mushrooms and toadstools cluster thickly across the bark, green moss softens every edge, and the forest floor hums with renewal. What looks at first like an ending is, on closer inspection, a quiet riot of beginnings.

Bott notes simply, “When one thing ends, something else can begin.” It’s a line that captures the spirit of the card: Death not as annihilation, but as transformation. The tree that once stood tall now nourishes the next generation; its death is a form of giving.

I hadn’t really thought of Death as The Empress reimagined before, but I love that reading – the two as mirror phases of the same eternal cycle. Demeter, Persephone, Hades. Summer, Spring/Autumn, Winter. Fertility, desire, death. Creation doesn’t end here; it composts, it reshapes, it feeds the soil for what comes next.

The Devil card depicts a Black Widow spider, suspended from a silken thread as a moth struggles in her web. Bott writes, “The moth wasn’t paying attention and got trapped. But the spider needs this to survive. Indulge the physical pleasure.” It’s an unsettlingly positive or ‘lightwork’ take on the card’s energy, and really unpicks its ambiguity. We’re neither spider nor moth here, but both: hunter and caught, need and indulgence. The web becomes a symbol of desire itself: sticky and dangerous.

What fascinates me most is that distinctive red marking on the Black Widow’s back – it’s shaped almost like a Tarot ‘Cup’ icon, the suit of pleasure and emotion (how had I never clocked this before?!) How perfect, then, that this emblem of death also carries the symbol of ecstasy. The Devil reminds us that pleasure and peril often share a pulse; that to live fully is to risk being consumed. Sometimes resistance isn’t the lesson. Sometimes the call is to live deliciously – to drink deep from the blood of life, knowing full well how the danger of it is what makes it taste so sweet.

The suit of Wands in the deck is reimagined as Arrows – and honestly, it’s a perfect fit. It captures that restless, propulsive energy of the element of Fire: fire! fire! fire! go! go! go! The whole suit hums with momentum, as if the cards themselves can’t wait to leap from the deck and launch into the world.

The Three of Arrows shows a single, bright dart tearing through the clouds, climbing higher and higher. Bott describes it as “bursting through the clouds, flying high in the air towards success,” and that’s exactly how it feels – a brave, fiery little projectile cutting through uncertainty with optimism and intent. It beautifully captures the adventuring, pioneering spirit of this card, that sense of having already left the safe harbour and now trusting your aim.

The Six of Arrows (Wands) shows three arrows dead on bullseye (and look how their shadows create the other three arrows to bring the total to six – so clever!) This card carries forward the story begun in the Three of Arrows: the daring launch, the leap of faith, now culminating in triumph. The aim was true, the effort worth it. Bott puts it simply and perfectly: “Congrats! You’re the winner!”

The Seven of Arrows (Wands) is a hail of arrows slamming against the thick stone wall of a castle. Most fall crumpled to the ground, their energy spent, but a few manage to arc over the battlements and land on the other side. Bott describes the card simply as “defence and opposition,” and that’s exactly what it feels like: the moment of impact, the pressure of holding your ground.

It’s a card of resilience and resistance, the test of whether you can stand firm when everything seems to be flying at you at once. But look closely, and there’s nuance here too. Some of those arrows do make it through. Even the strongest defences take strain; even the bravest stands have their costs. This card reminds us that courage isn’t about being untouched, it’s about refusing to yield, even when the sky itself seems to be raining down against you.

The Ten of Arrows (Wands) shows a full quiver hanging from the branch of a tree. Bott describes it as “heavy,” “dragging down,” the branch “close to breaking” – and you can feel that weight. But I read it a little differently. To me, it looks like the quiver has been purposefully hung up, the same way you might ‘hang up your spurs’ – down tools because you’re ready to rest or retire. The work is done; the arrows can rest. Sometimes the fire of the Wands suit goes out, and that’s not failure, it’s natural. There are seasons in our lives when the old passions have run their course, and moving on isn’t quitting, it’s just redirecting our energy! Perhaps into the emotional flow of the Cups, the sensual steadiness of the Pentacles, or the clarity of the Swords. It doesn’t have to be all fire, all the time! Sometimes the truest strength lies in knowing when to set the quiver down.

The King of Arrows (Wands) is a single flaming arrow, surrounded by smaller candles, kinda like a prophet encircled by his disciples, haha. Bott describes him as “bold and illuminating, guiding the way,” and he does exactly that – a figure who burns not for himself, but to light a path for others. If you look closely, though, I think his arrow also resembles a quill, a subtle but striking touch. It hints at a different kind of fire: the fire of communication. This King doesn’t just lead by action; he inspires through expression. His flame lives on in words, ideas, and the sparks he kindles in others.

I love how the Cup Courts trace the rise and fall of the day, starting with the Page at dawn; then the bright, sunny Knight; the warm and slightly secret dusk of the Queen; and the starry inspirational night of the King.

Bott describes the Page as “innocent and sweet,” and the card radiates that fresh, creative energy, full of imagination and first light. Experimentation for its own sake, the kind of emotional play that doesn’t fear a little mess.

By midday, we meet the Knight of Cups – enthusiastic, romantic, and (let’s be honest) a little bit of a heartbreaker. Surrounded by a book of poetry and several love letters (plural, I see you, Mr Fuckboy!) he’s the archetype of the “hot-and-steamy” dreamer. Bott notes the ink splatters on his tablecloth: he is “too excited, not careful.” That detail says it all. He feels first, thinks later. Passionate, yes, but prone to spilling his cup everywhere.

Together, they chart the full emotional day: from inspiration to passion, reflection to wisdom, each phase necessary, each one luminous in its own way.

The Six of Swords depicts a single wrapped sword resting in a small boat, gliding across calm, glassy waters toward a pale horizon. Sunrise or sunset, it’s hard to tell. Either way, the light feels soft, forgiving. The turbulence has passed. Bott notes that the cloth around the blade is “bandages, protection.” The wounds of the past are still there, carefully tended, not yet healed but no longer raw. The boat becomes a vessel of transition, a means of carrying pain without letting it cut us anew.

There’s a deep stillness in this card. The water is calm; the emotions have settled. What was once chaos has become endurance. We sail on, quietly, toward whatever comes next. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting, it means learning how to move forward without reopening the wound.

The Ten of Stones (Pents) glitters with abundance. A row of jewellery display cases holds a collection of ornate rings and pendants, treasures Bott describes as “rare and hard to obtain“. Curated valuables rather than rough stones. These aren’t the raw materials of prosperity but its perfected form: wealth shaped by time, skill, and legacy. Each piece carries the weight of craftsmanship: the artisan’s knowledge, the patient art of refinement, the traditions passed down through generations. But it’s not just material wealth on display here. These jewels are heirlooms, repositories of memory: your great-grandmother’s ring, your father’s watch, the necklace you only wear on anniversaries. They hold the kind of inheritance that can’t be tallied on a balance sheet: love, lineage, belonging.

And note that word, display. The Pentacles are a forthright suit. There’s no shame in earned wealth or visible success here, no quiet modesty. If you’ve worked hard and built something beautiful, take pride in it. Shine a little. You’ve earned the sparkle.

The Cracked Amethyst Tarot feels like both a culmination and a homecoming, a decade of artistic growth distilled into a deck that’s gentle, thoughtful, and quietly wise. The Kickstarter campaign has now wrapped, but fear not, the deck will return to Jessica Bott’s website next year (2026). And when it does, it’s well worth catching one of those shining seeds before it drifts away!

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