I jerk awake to the sound of raised voices, my heart pounding. Peering across the dirt floor of our cramped sleeping quarters, I see Father yelling at two burly soldiers filling the narrow doorway, their hands resting on sword hilts.

"Why d'ye curs demand twelve coppers?" Father bellows, shirtless and disheveled from slumber. "I've naught left to give after Lord Eamonn's last tax!"

A wiry, fox-faced man in fine clothes steps forward, sneering. "Because the king's army marches on its coin, you filthy peasant."

The steward backhands Father viciously. I flinch as the meaty crack of flesh on flesh echoes through the hovel. Father staggers but stays upright, spitting a gobbet of blood from his split lip.

I scramble from the straw pallet, my bare feet slapping the hard-packed earth as I dart closer to better witness the unfolding scene. The two soldiers leer openly, their gnarled features twisted in mocking grins as they drink in Father's humiliation.

"Well now, if coin escapes your grasp…" The steward's gaze rakes over Mother where she kneels clutching her dress closed. "Mayhap your woman could serve as payment instead? I'd wager she's worth at least eight coppers to the right…entrepreneur."

He grasps Mother's chin gently, his thumb stroking her cheek as she cringes away. "Why, even Lord Eamonn himself might fancy bedding this fresh piece for a night's entertainment, eh?"

The soldiers snicker, leering at Father whose face purples with rage. I can't suppress my whimper of fear as I dart forward, clinging to the coarse fabric of Father's breeches. Looking up, I widen my eyes pleadingly.

"Papa, I'm scared! Make the bad men go away!"

Father glances down, his scowl softening momentarily. Shaking off my grasp, he crosses the room in three long strides to retrieve a sack hidden beneath the turnips in the corner. Upending it over his calloused palm, he counts out a few tarnished coppers before hurling them at the steward's feet.

"There, ye devils! Every last coin I possess. Now get ye gone from my home!"

The steward spits on the ground contemptuously. "Pick up those coins yourself and hand them over proper…or else."

Father freezes, the vein in his forehead throbbing alarmingly. I can see him struggling not to explode, his thick fingers flexing helplessly at his sides.

Mother scrambles to gather the scattered coins, depositing them in the steward's outstretched palm with a whispered, "Please, sir…we meant no disrespect."

The steward smiles thinly. "See? That wasn't so difficult, was it? The kingdom thanks loyal subjects like you for keeping our soldiers fed and armed."

He makes an elaborate, mocking bow toward Father. "Oh, and do try not to forget the church tithe come Sun's Day, hmm? We can't very well have the Almighty's wrath descending upon this…quaint dwelling."

The soldiers' raucous laughter echoes across the small yard long after they disappear down the lane. Father stands motionless, chest heaving, his fists clenched helplessly at his sides as Mother huddles on the floor, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Curse that thieving bastard priest!" Father bellows, spittle flying as he slams a meaty fist down on our rickety table. The impact makes the battered wood jump, causing Mother to flinch violently where she kneels huddled on the dirt floor.

He begins pacing the cramped confines of our hovel like a caged beast, the stench of his unwashed body wafting through the smoky air. "Two more coppers he demands for the church's 'glory'," he sneers, making air quotes with his calloused fingers. "As if that poxy degenerate Brogan cares one whit about Christian charity!"

I wrinkle my nose in disgust as Father hocks a wet globule of phlegm onto the already filthy floor. Flecks of spittle patter across my bare feet, making me shudder. I hate when he does that, as if our humble home isn't squalid enough without him adding his foul leavings to the muck.

"The bastard knows I cannot refuse increased tithes," he growls, rounding on Mother again. "Else they'll accuse me of heresy and leave us as food for the witch hunters' blades!"

His bloodshot eyes narrow to slits as he jabs an accusing finger at the cowering woman. "This is all your fault, you useless sow! If you'd birthed me just one healthy son, I could send the brat off to the monastery for schooling and pay lower tithes. But no, you keep whelping naught but useless lice-ridden girls that can scarce draw breath!"

I flinch as Father's meaty hand gestures crudely in my direction, thick fingers curling into an obscene shape. "Now we've another mouth to feed come winter, and nothing to show for it but this scrawny bait!"

Mother's shoulders slump further as she whispers something about God having reasons for denying us sons. But her feeble protest withers beneath the heat of Father's glare.

"The Lord helps those who help themselves!" he roars, making me cringe. "And I aim to do just that, even if it means selling my last seed stock and scraps of food!"

He paces a few more turns, boots scuffing the dirt floor before halting to face us again. "I've five coppers left at most," he growls, "and need two more for the church's blasted tithe. Mark me, woman, I'll find a way to get those coins even if I must trade my own flesh!"

Mother's shoulders slump in resignation, but she remains silent and still as a statue carved from weariness itself.

"You'd best pray it satisfies that bastard Brogan," Father warns her, resuming his agitated pacing. "For if he dares accuse me of holding back donation, we'll be at the mercy of whatever horrors the church deems fit punishment!"

He slams his fist down again, making me jump. The impact shakes the entire rickety structure, dust motes swirling in the dim light slanting through the unshuttered window.

"Failure to pay tithes means they can leave us bound and naked in the forest for the fell beasts to find," Father continues after a pause, his tone taking on a sinister relish. "Vampires, banshees, changelings, werewolves...all manner of unholy monsters roam those woods after dark, hungering for mortal flesh to defile and devour!"

Oisin stands motionless before me, forearms braced rigidly against the rickety wooden table as if needing its support. His broad shoulders rise and fall with each ragged breath, the tendons in his thick neck straining taut. I eye him warily, perplexed by this unnatural stillness. Normally the brute cannot cease his restless pacing and blustering for more than a few moments before exploding into another drunken tirade.

But now he seems almost...catatonic, staring vacantly ahead with eyes devoid of their usual belligerent glint. His calloused fingers clench and unclench spasmodically, the only hint of movement amidst this eerie tableau. I've never witnessed the bastard in such a trance before. A shiver of unease prickles along my spine as I turn towards the cowering woman huddled on the dirt floor.

Tugging insistently at her faded skirts, I lean close to whisper, "Mama, what ails Papa so? I've never seen the cur like this afore."

Aislin shakes her head slowly, not meeting my gaze. She nods towards Oisin's rigid form, murmuring, "Best leave him be when the black specters haunt his eyes, lamb. There's no tellin' what horrors he witnessed fightin' them godless Norse raiders..."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Her voice trails off in a weary sigh. I frown, curiosity piqued despite myself. Morbid fascination overcomes my usual caution as I creep closer on bare feet, the soles making no sound on the packed earth. Oisin doesn't react, continuing his trance-like staring and rhythmic hand clenching. I halt a scant pace from him, peering up at his haunted features.

"Them godless raiders weren't the worst by far, no," he suddenly rasps, making me flinch in surprise.

Oisin raises his head slowly, pale eyes focusing on some distant point only he can perceive. "We lost many good men on night patrol when the moon swelled full and red," he continues in that same hoarse monotone. "The howls chasin' our retreat...their screams as the beasts tore into them..."

A violent shudder wracks his massive frame. His thick fingers dig grooves into the table's edge, tendons standing out in harsh relief. Despite myself, I cannot tear my gaze away from this disturbing display.

"What...what manner of beasts, Papa?" I hear myself asking in a small voice.

Oisin's haunted gaze swings down to me. His chapped lips peel back in a rictus grin, revealing a few blackened stumps amidst the rotten teeth. "Why, the peasant folk call 'em werewolves, lass," he rasps with relish. "Claws like steel that tear through armor and bone like wet parchment. Teeth that reduce a man to gobbets of meat and shattered bone by mornin'..."

He shudders again, eyes glittering with some dark glee at my poorly concealed horror. "Aye, and there's worse things than even them foul beasts what stalk the night," Oisin continues with a leer. "Soulless fiends that drink the very blood from yer veins, leaving naught but a shriveled husk when they're done."

I swallow hard, suddenly regretting my curiosity. "Wh-what things, Papa?" I whisper, already dreading the answer.

"Vampires," Oisin hisses, leaning closer so I cannot escape his rancid breath. "Aye, the undead walk amongst us, lass, preyin' on the weak and foolish. Cut off their heads and they'll still keep comin', unstoppable as the grave!"

He laughs then, the harsh sound making me cringe. "Once one o' them fiends latches onto yer throat with its fangs, ye'd best make peace. They won't stop until they've drained the last drop o' life from yer veins!"

I back away slowly, pulse thundering in my ears. If even a fraction of Oisin's ramblings hold truth, then the world beyond this wretched village harbors nightmares far surpassing any I could conjure. A cold knot of dread forms in the pit of my empty belly as I realize the true peril lurking amidst the shadows I'd hoped to escape into...

Oisin pushes himself abruptly away from the rickety table, his bulky frame swaying precariously. "Enough o' them ancient tales to sour the gut," he growls, spittle flying from his cracked lips. "I'd best get to the fields afore the steward takes a strap to me hide for bein' lazy."

With no further words, he sighs heavily and lumbers towards the warped wooden door, shoulders hunched beneath some unseen burden. The door bangs shut behind his retreating form with an air of grim finality that seems to suck all warmth from the cramped chamber.

Mother stands slowly from where she knelt on the hard-packed earth, her faded skirts swishing. "We've much work gettin' ready for market today, lass," she tells me in a weary tone. "Can't be lollygaggin' about now."

Crossing to the smoldering hearth, she unhooks the blackened iron cauldron from its spit and gestures for me to take a seat at the rough-hewn table. "I'll be boilin' some eggs for our meal whilst ye feed the chickens," Mother says, rummaging through the storage nook. "Hope the hens produced fine today so we might meet the church tithe."

As she cracks several speckled eggs into the pot, I ask hesitantly, "But why's the priest needin' our coins, Mama? Ain't he got enough already?"

Mother shakes her head, tendrils of lank hair escaping her linen cap to frame her careworn features. "Copies o' holy texts don't scribe themselves, lamb. And Father Brogan's fondness for French wine and other...comforts means gold must flow into the holy coffers."

I scowl down at the pitted, scarred surface of the table, fingers tracing the grooves. These corrupt clerics are naught but assholes, I think bitterly. They've not an ounce of true Christian charity in their blackened souls!

Mother places the cauldron back over the meager fire, wiping her hands down the front of her skirts. She fixes me with a stern look, eyes narrowing. "Mind ye don't question the men o' cloth no matter their flaws, Lile," she warns in a low voice. "Through the church's protection are we shielded from demons and dark spirits abroad in these lands."

I duck my head submissively, forcing a tone of childish acquiescence. "Yes Mama, I understand."

But inside I seethe, knowing it's not yet time to openly challenge generations of religious indoctrination and superstition. Or is it mere superstition if Oisin's tale of the night hunt holds even a modicum of terrifying truth?

"Go on then, lass. Feed them feathered beasts their mornin' portion," Mother instructs, gesturing towards the warped door with a weary hand.

I slide obediently from the rough-hewn bench, bare feet slapping the hard-packed dirt as I make my way outside. The crisp dawn air stings my nostrils, laden with the ever-present reek of livestock and smoke. I pinch my nose, grimacing, as I shuffle around the crumbling mud walls to the small fenced enclosure housing our pathetic flock of scrawny fowl.

Grasping the last handful of oats, I scatter the meager grains across the bare earth, watching with detached amusement as the chickens descend upon the offering like feathered locusts, wings flapping and beaks stabbing greedily. Their raucous clucking and squabbling fills the chill morning air with an unholy racket.

I roll my eyes at their mindless frenzy. "Here, ye dumb clucks - eat up while ye can. I'll be pluckin' the lot o' ye bald come winter if we've naught else to fill our bellies!"

The rooster eyes me balefully from his perch atop the fence, magnificent plumage ruffling in the breeze. I stick out my tongue at the pompous fowl before snatching up the algae-crusted pail to refill their water trough from the nearby rain barrel. The chickens seem determined to make my life as difficult as possible, fluttering and squawking underfoot as I slosh the foul liquid into their dish.

"Saints preserve me, ye feathery fiends are askin' for a good roastin'!" I growl, swiping at them with the dripping pail.

Leaving them to bicker and peck amongst themselves, I creep into the cramped confines of the coop itself, nose wrinkling at the thick stench of droppings and stale straw. Kneeling, I carefully check the nest boxes, pleasantly surprised to find a fresh clutch of seven warm, speckled eggs nestled within.

"Well, bugger me with a pitchfork..." I murmur, gently scooping the fragile ovals into my cupped apron. "Seems our scrawny layers have been workin' overtime to fill the trenchers!"

I rise, cradling my precious cargo back towards the hovel with exaggerated care, as though bearing a clutch of priceless gemstones rather than humble chicken's eggs. Mother glances up as I re-enter the cramped interior, eyebrows raised quizzically.

"Look here, Mama!" I announce with no small amount of pride. "Our ladies have been proper busy this morn, bless their scrawny feathered hides!"

I deposit the warm, speckled bounty atop the battered wooden table with a flourish, unable to resist a smug grin at her look of surprise. Mother quickly recovers, deftly plucking the eggs into a woven reed basket before turning back to the sputtering hearth fire.

"Well, ain't the Lord's mercies bountiful this day," she murmurs. "Though I'll not question His strange ways in providin' our humble fare."

I resume my seat at the rough-hewn bench, watching in silence as she tends the meager meal with deft motions born of long practice. The sharp tang of rendered pork fat and sizzling eggs soon fills the cramped chamber, my empty belly rumbling eagerly in response. Mother portions out the simple fare onto two battered wooden trenchers before joining me at the table, weary lines etched deep around her sunken eyes.

"Ye seem unsettled still, lamb," she observes, sliding one of the steaming platters before me. "Them wild tales yer father spun this morn must've fair addled yer young wits."

I poke listlessly at the glistening mound of pale yellow curds, struggling to find my appetite amidst the lingering dread coiling in my belly. "Mama...is it true what Papa raved about? That unholy monsters prowl the woods by night, seekin' to steal away wee lasses like me?"

Mother's brow furrows as she sets down her own trencher, reaching across the battered wood to grasp my hands in her own work-roughened ones. "Aye, child, 'tis true enough them foul beasts stalk these parts once the blessed sun sinks low," she says solemnly. "Vampires, werewolves, demons of every unholy breed - all hunger for innocent flesh and blood on the hours of darkness."

She crosses herself swiftly, murmuring a brief prayer under her breath. "Only by the grace of God and His holy men are the evil fiends kept from our very doors, lamb. 'Tis the abbot's blessed silver chains and sacred relics what bind the demons to their forest lairs."

I gape at her, scarcely able to credit the fear shining naked in her sunken eyes. "But...but how, Mama? What power do a few old monks possess over such preternatural horrors?"

Mother squeezes my hands almost painfully. "Why, the very authority of the Lord Christ Himself, granted through Holy Mother Church!" she hisses fervently. "This is why we must pay our tithes each Domhnaigh, lass - so the church's warriors can stand eternal vigil against the unholy terrors abroad in these lands!"

Her eyes burn with zealous conviction, and I find myself leaning back instinctively. "Why, the abbot's very own brother were a famed vampire slayer afore takin' the cowl! We've naught to fear whilst such righteous men stand vigilant against the dark, mark me words."

I can only nod mutely, fresh tendrils of dread unfurling within my churning belly. If even half of what Mother and Father have raved holds truth, then this primitive land I've awoken in harbors nightmares far surpassing any I could conjure...

Heh...so not only am I considered a soulless fucking animal fit only for breeding and beatings in this shithole, but now I gotta keep one eye peeled for bloodsucking leeches and furry rage monsters between scratching my crotch lice? Fucktastic! What delightful medieval torture awaits me next - zombified peasants giving me a deep tissue massage while horned imps braid daisies into my mangy rat's nest?[...]