Before we begin, May I draw on your attention? No seriously can I draw on your attention... I know your attention isn't up/down there, I am looking at your thighs, I mean eyes, You may find some of this content, suggestive, antiquated, border line Fifth Elephant in nature, but no offense, defence or wire fence is meant, in other words, make sure you have a sense of humour, because you may need to it serviced, and the sense of humour too, by the time you've survived this entry.

Let us begin; Picture it, a day much like any other; the sound of hooves beating the ground fill the stillness. Until that moment, the mountain track had been silent, and the dust had not moved since the unfortunate incident, where two men clad in black, helped the faraway kingdoms’ duke, to fall over the edge and perish of natural causes, (suicide by way of assassination is considered perfectly natural in these parts).

Paladin, a steed of epic power; has lost his knight. He was upon its back one moment, and now there would be no need for the lard, rubber gloves and can opener after the low branch, rock fall and stampeding ferrets. Still, there was a mission of high importance that needed attention, as the hoof beats continued, Paladin remembered how it all began… No not the universe, but the mission…

It had been a night like many others, the stable door was ajar; the sound of the lard jar being closed, the can opener slipped gently upon the nail, gliding down, until it reached the firm, solid, surface; the knight stood there, holding the rubber gloves, and smiled, as his aide, once again rose to the occasion…

Far from the stable, something was brewing; it had the distinct smell of yeast, grains, hops, and water. Within the caldron these four ingredients were starting to bubble as another batch of Wytch’s Wonder Wyne, was getting ready for home delivery.

Gwen Gilstrop, the local wise woman and wytch, turned to Torreya, the Talking Tree, her simple request was for this babbling Boobialla, to sample her sapling. Torreya, much like its sister Toona, started swearing (they are Boobialla’s after all), and it is a little-known fact that trees are not much for alliterations, (they are allergic).

As the caldron’s contents condensed, and the swearing became more of a slurring, Gwen knew that her brew, had got the trees stewed, and was ready to be shipped out. It was upon the return from her last delivery, Gwen could hear sounds of moaning, groaning, and glee, (other law firms are available).

Curiosity, much like her cat could get her killed, but none the less she had to peak; so carefully and cautiously, like a drunken sailor, slamming doors quietly as they fall down the stairs, Gwen peered around the stable door and exclaimed in sheer shock, at what she saw.

The sheer terror of the sight had aged the poor girl, and the fright brought out her beard. Upon Gwen’s return home, her parents knew it was time for the ‘talk’ (the last time they tried, Gwen learnt about the potency of breads). They knew that they would need to explain about, boys, beards, and demons.

Many moons had passed since that fateful night, when Gwen had witnessed what the knight, and his aide had done, with the rubber gloves, the can opener, and the jar of lard. Many more caldrons had brewed since Gwen had learnt the facts of the afterlife from her parents.

We re-join our heroine, as once again she attempts to understand, the karmic sutra position called Hanging Hellhound Hitch. As Gwen once again, took a look through the book, at the depiction and description of the trickiest position.

Where it’s a lurch to the left, then rotate to the right, sow two hands to the hips and bring the knees in tight, watch for the pelvic pivot, as they go whacko, don’t do the Hanging Hellhound Hitch again…

Sadly many do not read the book until the very end, because if they did then they would find the tales of traction, truthful telling of tragedy and travesty, from those who failed to follow the precautions on page one.

The moral of our first Tarot Tale, here on Tarot Blog Hop Island; if you are going to be Epic, then make sure your caldron overflows, remember to avoid alliteration around trees and always watch where you are headed, when riding a horse called Paladin. Lastly and most importantly, make sure to bolt the stable door, the last thing you need is stampeding ferrets, premature rising in the beard, and hairy bread.

Our second tale is slightly saucier, as we heat things up with a little steam. As you know, the world of the Tarot Blog Hop Isle is vast, and time moves in mysterious ways. We are travelling forwards, as we head on the road and visit Two Towns Over…

It begins (as these things most always do), on a night much like any other, where a golden scorpion has just finished its moonlit bath, while serenaded by an out of tune dog and drunken cat. 

As the scorpion peers out into the night, it knows that there is debauchery, drunkenness, and devilry afoot. Dreading looking back into the room, the scorpion scuttles sideways, avoiding any eye contact with the drunken cat and out of tune dog, as it does not wish to know about whatever it is they are doing at the moment.

There is a little known myth, that says “On the night of a full moon, when an out of tune dog, and a drunken cat are behind the freshly bathed scorpion; a sword of great prowess and girth will be unsheathed, and any that behold such a mighty, meaty, mucronate will find the ultimate satisfaction.

Many believe that this myth is a warning about the coming Zombie Squirrel Apocalypse, others believe it is the source of the 2020 Pandemic, of course we all know that the sheep are behind the whole thing, and it was their maniacal tampering with chickens that brought the world to its knees.

Meanwhile in the big, small city village, called Two Towns Over; Gwen Gilthrop our local wytch, has just dropped off her wytchs wyne at the local ladies of the night, who hold their monthly Monday meeting and twice on Tuesdays in the gentlemen’s club.

When out of the blue, she is taken by surprise, as thrust into her possession, are some 9 or so inches. Thankfully, the warning of ‘here take this’ was enough to avoid the sharp edges, otherwise it could have been messy, because holding a sword the wrong way, never ends well.

Feeling such raw power, girth and unsheathed prowess, Gwen knew that she must take to the hills, but not on the steed from the stables, as many a knight has been wasted riding it. Plus, she knew that ever since being freed from her beard, the hairy breadstick has wanted her back.

In the shadow of the buildings, a tall figure of a man watched, stroking his beard, and plotting how to get close to the face of Gwen Gilthrop. He had never forgiven her for shaving, and now it was time for revenge, the hairy kind of revenge.

As Gwen and her meaty mucronate, made their towards the gates of Two Towns Over; he knew that she would be headed into the wild wilderness of Mile High and Long Wood, a place that had a reputation as seedy as the Ladies of the Night, Monthly Monday Meetings, Twice on Tuesdays in the Gentleman’s Club.

The bearded stranger knew that Gwen had gotten head and went deep with Mile High and Long Wood (other innuendos are available), riding the steed was the only way to catch up. He had to admit, he had never ridden a stallion like this before, and at this pace, he would soon reach the climax of his journey.