Once we've finished our unseemly business, Aislin and I make our way back inside the hovel. No sooner have I ducked through the low entranceway than Oisin's gruff bellow rings out from the sleeping alcove.

"Woman! Get yer scrawny arse in here an' ride me cock like a proper wife!" he roars, the words slurring ever so slightly. "Been too blasted long since ye worked it proper, an' I aim to put a fresh babe in that womb o' yers tonight!"

I can't quite stifle my look of utter revulsion at the drunken lout's vile command. Is nothing sacred to this depraved pig? He speaks of breeding his own wife like she's nothing more than livestock meant for studding!

Aislin, for her part, doesn't seem the least bit fazed. She merely turns to me with a resigned look, already gathering her tattered skirts.

"Off ye go now, poppet," she murmurs, shooing me towards the door. "Best ye wait outside fer a spell whilst I...tend to yer da's needs, aye?"

I nod mutely, my face burning with humiliation as I quickly scurry outside into the rapidly fading twilight. The creak of the rope latch and Aislin's soft footfalls soon fade, swallowed up by the drunken brute's grunts of exertion from within.

Shuddering in revulsion, I hurry around the rear of the hovel and slump against the crumbling fence, my back pressed against the splintered logs. I tilt my face skyward, drinking in the breathtaking vista of the heavens slowly awakening overhead.

One by one, the brilliant pinpricks of starlight wink into existence against the deepening indigo backdrop. The waxing moon, a pale sliver amongst the celestial splendor, casts just enough illumination to silhouette the surrounding hovels and copses in an ethereal glow.

I lose myself in the majesty of that infinite expanse, the cosmic grandeur a welcome balm against the sordid realities of my earthly purgatory. Up there, amongst those glittering galaxies and swirling nebulae, the concepts of filth and depravity hold no meaning. Only the eternal laws of physics reign supreme - forces too vast and fundamental for the human mind to fully comprehend.

A harsh grunt from the hovel behind me shatters my reverie, the unmistakable sound of Oisin reaching his fleeting peak. I grimace in disgust, my shoulders tensing as a fresh wave of revulsion washes over me.

These...people. These ignorant, unwashed brutes who wallow in their own excrement and bodily fluids like pigs in a sty. They normalize the most depraved acts - rape, pedophilia, the utter exploitation of their own flesh and blood - all without a shred of guilt or self-awareness.

They are the very definition of savagery, made all the more grotesque by the fact that they glorify their depravity in the name of religious piety! Oisin and his ilk are not merely uneducated louts, but zealous fanatics drunk on their own delusions of moral superiority.

At least Aislin seems to possess a modicum of maternal instinct, I suppose. The wretched woman clearly struggles against her dire circumstances, doing whatever she can to provide for her children despite the relentless abuse and degradation she endures. Hers is a tragic existence, to be sure - but one tinged with the barest glimmers of human decency amidst the all-consuming darkness.

A weary sigh escapes my lips as the telltale sounds from within finally cease. Honestly, is that pitiful display all Oisin is capable of in the bedchamber? Three feeble pumps and a pathetic grunt before soiling his sheets like an incontinent babe? I wouldn't be surprised if the poor, long-suffering Aislin has never experienced the blissful release of a true orgasm in her entire miserable life!

The creak of the warped wooden door pierces the evening stillness, causing me to turn my head. "Lile! Git yerself back inside now!" Aislin's shrill voice rings out.

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Pushing off from the crumbling fence, I trudge towards the hovel's entrance where Aislin stands framed in the doorway, her sallow face cast in shadow. As I approach, she reaches down to pat my tangled curls in an almost affectionate gesture.

"There's me good lass," she murmurs, her calloused hand trailing down to give my back a gentle nudge. "Time fer sleep now, poppet."

I nod obediently, widening my eyes in an exaggerated look of childish fatigue as I shuffle past her into the stifling interior. The reek of stale bodily fluids and smoke hangs thick in the air, making my nose wrinkle in disgust.

Of course the wretched woman didn't even bother washing after that drunken lout finished rutting atop her like a feral beast. Why am I not surprised? I've already witnessed more than enough of their appalling lack of basic hygiene to last several lifetimes. At this rate, I'll likely contract some horrific pox or intestinal parasite from the water supply long before any airborne plague has a chance to claim me.

Aislin's bony fingers close around my wrist, giving a gentle tug as she guides me towards the sleeping alcove. There lies Oisin sprawled amidst the soiled straw, snoring loud enough to shake the very rafters with each rumbling exhalation. The brute sounds like a chainsaw chewing through solid oak, utterly oblivious to the world around him in his drunken stupor.

Grimacing, I quickly scurry to the far end of the pallet and hunker down as close to the wall as I can manage, putting as much distance between myself and that loathsome pig as possible. The last thing I need is to wake and find his sweaty, meaty paws groping at me in the night.

Aislin moves to the smoldering remains of the hearth, using a crude iron poker to stir the glowing coals and bank them for the evening. A few tendrils of acrid smoke coil upwards, stinging my nostrils and making my eyes water.

Once she's satisfied with her work, the wretched woman shuffles over and settles herself on the straw between Oisin and myself with a weary sigh. She shoots me a wan smile, reaching out to gently stroke my cheek.

"I love ye, me precious lamb," Aislin murmurs, her voice thick with a tenderness that seems at odds with our wretched surroundings. "Ye mean the whole world to yer ma, ye do."

With that, she leans in to envelop me in a fierce embrace, her bony arms wrapping around my tiny frame as she presses her chapped lips to my brow. I stiffen at the unexpected display of affection, my face flushing with discomfort and embarrassment.

But Aislin seems oblivious to my unease, simply holding me tight as her eyelids grow heavy. Within moments, her breathing slows and deepens, each exhalation ruffling my tangled curls.

As I lie here on this piss-soaked straw pallet, sandwiched between the snoring behemoth that is Oisin and the bony frame of Aislin, I can't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of my situation. This has to be some bizarre coma dream brought on by bad clams or dodgy street cart hot dogs. I mean, seriously, why else would I be cast as an urchin extra in the peasant version of Jersey Shore?

I keep expecting to hear a booming voice from the heavens - or more likely, some pot-bellied director with a megaphone - bellowing "Cut! Print that shit, folks!" Any second now, the cameras and crew will emerge from the grubby woodwork like termites from a rotting log. These medieval muck farmers will suddenly transform before my eyes, ripping off their dental disaster prosthetics and revealing pearly white veneers underneath. They'll start cracking jokes about having to choke down bowls of gruel between takes, comparing notes on which craft services table had the best spread.

Maybe, just maybe, this is my big break. Perhaps some eagle-eyed producer will spot me in the background, marveling at my ability to look authentically miserable and flea-bitten. Before I know it, I'll be whisked away to star in my very own reality show. Move over Snooki, Lile Ban is bringing the middle ages into the 22nd century! We could call it "Serf's Up" or "The Real Housewives of Baile Rois." I can see the tagline now: "She's got 99 problems, and the plague is definitely one."

But as I lie here, inhaling the pungent bouquet of unwashed bodies and festering hay, a creeping dread begins to set in. What if this isn't some elaborate Hollywood production? What if I'm actually stuck here in this cesspool of medieval misery? Please, for the love of all that is holy and hygienic, let this be just a dream. I don't want to live in this place for the rest of... well, let's be real. Given the life expectancy around here, I'll give myself maybe one year, tops. And that's being generous, haha.

I stifle a snort at my own morbid humor, remembering just in time that I'm supposed to be a simple peasant child. Can't have Aislin or Oisin catching on that their darling daughter has the inner monologue of a jaded stand-up comedian. So I snuggle deeper into my flea-infested nest, praying to whatever deity might be listening (preferably one with a sense of humor) that I'll wake up tomorrow in a world with indoor plumbing and antibiotics. Is that really too much to ask?