Title: Knorg’s Vampire Tarot
Category: Paranormal
Author Pen name:
Knorg
Email: paxgronk@hotmail.com
Description: These card stories use a variety of well-known and
popular as well as more obscure characters, from Marge Simpson to Elvis, from
Bloodrayne to Jon Arbuckle, as well as my own characters. Each story is around
1000 words.
Stories: Death/Rebirth by
Vampire, catfight, sex, girl-on-girl, and similar.
Song lyrics used without
permission.
Characters/places/trademarks
that aren’t mine are used for this parody without permission.
This story concept is a
parody of Fifteen Painted Cards from a Vampire Tarot by Neil Gaiman.
Centuries ago, Hellas
enjoyed a golden age. It was a land of wonders and warriors, monsters and
mysteries, heroes and gods. The great cities varied between states of peace and
war, fighting to honour the gods and themselves. Hellas, a generation before
the fleet sailed for Troy, when the tales of Hercules were first spreading
across the city-states. There stood in those days in the city of Thebes, where
Oedipus would later rule, a fine temple of Apollo.
The sun was hanging at
it’s highest in the sky when the stranger came to the Theban temple of Apollo.
She was dressed well; the style of her clothes and her body0 – especially her fine
blonde hair - marked her as a foreigner. The exceptionally tall priest
Thyroidedes, who had travelled widely in his youth, thought he recognised
something of the barbarian tribes who lived far beyond Hellas’ northern wilds
in the woman, who now paused at the bottom of the steps into the temple.
“What do want, stranger?
Do you come to offer sacrifice to great Apollo? Or seek our hospitality,
perhaps?”
Insects buzzed in the
deserted street, few ventured out at mid-day if they could avoid it. The stranger
said nothing as she climbed the steps; it was only close to the old priest that
she spoke, "I seek the High Priestess. I have come to end her family
line.”
The old man’s eyes grew
wide as the stranger spoke her heavily accented Theban. “You dare…!”
The stranger reached out
casually, gently, and broke the old man’s neck with a single hand. Without
relaxing her grip, she pulled his corpse into the temple’s cool dark sanctum.
The sun was dropping as
the High Priestess Photine returned
from her other duties of tending a family shrine to Morpheus; a task her mother
had once, before the old lady’s death, told her mattered more than all her
duties before Apollo himself. There were still few people in the street and she
took the nods of respect to her status as her due. She climbed the steps into
the great temple of Apollo and entered the building.
She was faced with
carnage. Old Thyroidedes’ broken body lay across the sacrificial altar, a slick
puddle of blood surrounded the torn apart bodies of the junior priestesses and
handmaidens. Photine fought back the urge to vomit as the stench of spilled
blood flooded her nostrils, and she turned to run into the street.
“Oh no, my pretty. Your
mother’s mother hid you from me well, but now I shall take my vengeance upon you
for the time crimes of your ancestors.”
Photine backed away,
further into the temple. The stranger came forward, smiling sharp canine teeth
at the sickened, terrified priestess.
“You… you have defiled the
temple of Apollo! The sun god strike you down, the mighty power of the sun will
burn the skin from your bones your suffering…”
“MY SUFFERING? Since your
ancestral witch killed my child, all I’ve done is suffer. MY CHILD! Not
of my blood, but MINE! To each of your line I’ve brought rightful, vengeful
death until your grandmother… Your line will end here. Now. I care not for your
gods – I am a true immortal.”
Photine searched for inner
strength, reaching deep into her mind for her courage, her power. It seemed to
her she heard a voice,
‘She has made an enemy
of the sun for all her people. Drive her into it and she will perish. My
daughter become my hero as Perseus to my sister.’
The stranger tore at
Photine’s dress, dropping it to the floor. The high priestess stood naked.
Photine felt the stranger’s lips upon her neck and then pricking teeth. A cold
hand groped her breasts, and suddenly the high priestess was inspired. Photine
was of above average beauty with fine olive skin, black hair like a goddess’s
and firm, shapely form, it was true, but her greatest asset was ever her
mind.
“Wait… please…”
The stranger broke off,
Photine’s blood about her mouth, and whispered in her ear, “and why, why should
I wait?”
Photine gently caressed
the stranger’s breasts through her clothes, timidly and without experience. She
kissed clumsily at the woman’s lower lip as the stranger regarded her
quizzically, “because… because you’re beautiful. You have shown me the lie in
Apollo’s power in defiling his temple without retribution. Please… let me repay
my ancestor’s crimes in life, not death… let me…”
Photine kissed the
murdering stranger more forcefully and felt her heart leap as the kiss was
returned. All she needed was a chance to run into the street, and as the blood
trickled down her shoulder, she hugged the woman too her in an embrace and felt
a cold hand rub down her priestess’s stomach and squeeze between her legs. The
high priestess reflexively closed her thighs on the hand, and then released
their grip. She pushed her hands up between them, widening their gap, to caress
the stranger’s breasts with greater ease.
The stranger continued to
feel Photine’s hairy virgin bush as their kiss slowly broke. The high priestess
continued to play with inexperienced hands as the stranger closed her eyes and
sighed, softly, “I wonder… should… should I let you live?” The stranger’s only
touch on Photine now was the hand upon her crotch, the street door entirely to
the priestess’s back.
“If I do… I will have
whored myself for my child’s memory… for…”
But naked Photine was
already running, away and into the street. Screamed rage tore the air the
stranger followed her, changing to sudden, urgent pain as the sun hit the
stranger. Photine looked over her shoulder to see fire engulf the woman. A
loose strong on the uneven road tripped her, and she landed naked upon the hard
ground. Turning painfully, ash settled over her. The woman was gone.
Photine wept.