Ugh, I can't even wrap my head around the sheer cosmic fuckery at play here. Fictional characters made real, historical figures resurrected, an entire world created as a bespoke torture porn theater...it's like the most demented crossover fanfiction ever shat out by a 4chan edgelord on bath salts. I keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out and tell me I've been Punk'd, but knowing my luck, I'll just get an alien probe jammed up my ass instead.

Fuck my life sideways with a rusty chainsaw, this is EXACTLY the kind of cruel and unusual punishment I'd expect from a bunch of sociopathic reality-warping aliens. They probably consider this shit prime time entertainment! "Tune in tonight at 8 to watch a former human dude reborn as a sickly peasant girl navigate a realm populated by the worst dregs of fiction and history - you won't want to miss the hilarity as she gets violated by orcs or tries to explain germ theory to superstitious turnip farmers!"

I swear, if I EVER figure out a way to give those twisted alien fucks a taste of their own medicine, I'll make the Human Centipede look like a goddamn Pixar movie in comparison! But for now, I guess I'm stuck playing the most fucked up game of Dungeons and Dragons imaginable, complete with genuine pain and suffering. Yippee ki yay...

Aislin shakes me, pulling me out of my reverie. I blink agitatedly at her.

"Lile, are you alright?" she asks with concern. "You were staring blankly ahead and didn't respond when I called you."

I shake my head and put on my best childish pout. "I'm sorry, Mama. I was just dreaming about kittens."

Aislin sighs and kisses my forehead. "Go outside and play for a bit before I lose my wits with you, child."

I nod obediently and scamper outside, resting my elbows on the gate as I look over at the neighboring hovel. I spot Saoirse playing with her kitten and wave excitedly. She grins and waves back.

"Hi Saoirse! Do you want to play?" I call out.

"Sure!" she replies happily, getting up and making her way over, her kitten trailing behind her.

But just as Saoirse opens her gate to cross the road, three large, burly men appear, leading a small group of women and girls bound in chains. The men are rough-looking brutes, their faces twisted into leers as they yank cruelly on the chains, making their captives stumble.

My eyes go wide as I take in the sorry group. Most of the women appear normal peasant folk, their dresses tattered and faces streaked with grime and tears. But a few stand out - one has delicately pointed ears peeking through her tangled violet tresses, while another sports vivid pink hair, eyebrows, and eyes along with a pair of small horns protruding from her brow.

I gasp audibly at their otherworldly appearances before remembering myself. Quickly, I duck behind a nearby bush, peering through the leaves to watch as the strange procession passes by. Saoirse, eyes wide with fright, has already turned and fled back into her hovel, the kitten clutched tightly to her chest.

The pink-haired girl, who looks no older than eight years, stumbles and falls to the ground with a cry. The burly man holding the chain attached to her neck yanks it roughly, causing her to choke.

"Why you hurting me?" the pink-haired girl sobs, tears streaming down her cherubic face. "I didn't do anything bad! I just want to play with my dolly and kittens!"

I can't believe what I'm witnessing. How could anyone treat a child this way? The sheer cruelty of it makes my stomach churn violently.

The man sneers down at the fallen girl, giving the chain another vicious tug. "Shut yer trap, unnatural freak! We're taking you to the soldier's camp to get passed around until you finally die like you deserve."

The pink-haired girl wails in terror, her small hands clutching at the cruel chain. "No, please! I want my mama!"

The violet-haired girl, who appears to be around my age, rushes over and tries to help the pink-haired girl up. "Come on, get up and walk!" she urges in a harsh whisper. "You have to keep going!"

With the violet-haired girl's assistance, the pink-haired girl manages to struggle back to her feet. But no sooner does she stand than another man leans over and spits a huge gob of phlegm directly into her face.

I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream of outrage threatening to burst forth. How dare they treat children this way? It's utterly depraved!

Yet as much as I want to intervene, to somehow stop this monstrous injustice, I know I can't. I'm just a powerless child myself in this primitive world. All I can do is watch in silent, impotent fury.

I realize now that slavery is an accepted practice here, but one rooted in the same vile superstitions that view me as a cursed, unnatural creature. The pink and violet hair marking those poor girls as inhuman "freaks" in the eyes of these ignorant brutes.

My gaze darts across the road to Saoirse, watching the scene unfold from her family's hovel. She meets my eyes and quickly presses a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. We both know there's nothing we can do.

One of the men suddenly lashes out, kicking the violet-haired girl's legs out from under her and sending her crashing to the ground.

"You're just a whore to be used by the soldiers too with that unnatural look!" he snarls down at the fallen girl. "Freaks like you are only good for one thing!"

To my utter revulsion, the pink-haired girl actually giggles at his vile words. "I'm glad to be a whore then!" she pipes up, smiling through her tears. "I hope I can satisfy as many men as possible before I finally die!"

I have to clap my other hand over my mouth to hold back the wave of nausea threatening to make me vomit right there in the bushes. The sheer depravity, the utter lack of innocence and humanity in this world...it's almost too much to bear.

And yet, I can't help noticing the complete absence of any sign that I did, in fact, vomit earlier during Gwenhwyfar's disturbing visit. Surely there should be some evidence of that left behind in the hovel? But no, the ground showed no stains or splatters whatsoever from my earlier sickness when I left the hovel.

A troubling inconsistency to be sure. But one that will have to be pondered another time. For now, I'm forced to be an unwilling spectator to this depraved circus of inhumanity as it continues to unfold.

One of the burly men suddenly kicks the pink-haired girl hard in her belly. She cries out in pain as he yanks viciously on the chain around her neck, dragging her small body through the dirt. The violet-haired girl quickly stands up and falls back in line with the other captive women.

"English whores have no rights as human beings in Ireland," one of the men mutters hatefully. "They deserve everything coming to them." He spits a glob of phlegm onto the ground before giving the chains an even harder yank, making the women whimper in fear and pain.

But the violet-haired girl doesn't make a sound. She takes the abuse stoically, her jaw set in a hard line as she endures. The man turns to leer at her, grabbing her face roughly between his meaty hands.

"I like your spirit, bitch," he growls. "You'll have to service my cock with that pretty mouth of yours tonight."

To my shock, the violet-haired girl spits directly in his face. "I'll use that spit to lubricate your filthy cock then," she retorts coldly.

The man snarls in rage, slapping her hard across the cheek. He grabs a fistful of her violet hair and drags her along the dirt road, pulling the chains to force the other women to keep up. Eventually, the whole grotesque procession disappears from sight around a bend.

I feel sick to my stomach, all hope for humanity draining away. Surely it couldn't have been this cruel and depraved in the past, could it? Women treated as less than cattle, subject to constant degradation and abuse?

But then I remember - of course this is Gwenhwyfar's doing. The alien bitch had her twisted hand in crafting the religions and histories of this world to be as brutal and misogynistic as possible. How cruel, how utterly evil! Those poor women have souls, ambitions, dreams of their own. Yet they're seen as subhuman creatures to be violated and discarded on a whim.

At least the chickens don't get raped to death like those girls likely will...

I glance up at the full moon hanging in the twilight sky, remembering that twisted bitch Gwenhwyfar's claim that it's some kind of cosmic broadcasting station beaming out this whole fucked up torture porn reality show to sick alien freaks across the galaxy. Well, are you having a grand old wank-fest watching that, you cosmic douchebags? Getting your xenophobic rocks off seeing little girls and women treated like utter garbage just for being born with the wrong hair color or homeland?

As if these poor souls don't already have it hard enough being serfs forced to bust their asses in the dirt from dawn till dusk, now they're getting carted off to some kind of rape camp gulag to be passed around and fucked to death by soldiers? What kind of depraved bullshit is that? What did those girls do to deserve such a horrific fate - stub their toes on the wrong rock that one time? Forget to curtsy deeply enough for the local lord's horse's ass? Oh wait, I know the unforgivable crime - they had the unmitigated gall to be born English on Irish soil! The sheer injustice of it all makes me want to projectile vomit until my stomach lining comes out.

Hmm, actually on second thought, maybe I shouldn't be so quick to shit on the English just yet. After all, the modern Brits are a whole different breed of insufferable wankers who absolutely deserve to be mocked and ridiculed at every opportunity. I'm talking full-on Monty Python levels of relentless piss-taking for their crimes against good taste, dental hygiene, and basic human decency. But these medieval English girls getting carted off to be gang-raped to death? Even by 21st century standards, that's a bridge too far into cruel and unusual punishment territory.

Haha, I can just picture a bunch of alien neckbeards sitting around watching the show on their cosmic flat screens, stuffing their grotesque maws with the extra-terrestrial equivalent of Cheetos as they guffaw at the "hilarious" misery unfolding. "Oh man, did you see that part where the little pink-haired girl got kicked in her tiny belly? Comedy gold, am I right fellas? That's gonna be an instant meme classic on Xenotube for sure! I just ruptured my anal vents from laughing so hard at her anguished squeals!"

Fuck you, fuck all of you sadistic alien bastards straight to the deepest pits of oblivion! This whole situation is so far beyond cruel and evil that there aren't even words for it in any of Earth's languages. Watching helpless children get abused and trafficked for sick amusement? That's a new level of cosmic-scale depravity that would make even the most hardened cartel psychopaths blanch in horror.

Well I've got news for you twisted fucks - I'm going to find a way to not just survive this nightmare, but to completely dismantle and overthrow your entire sick system from the inside out. I don't care if it takes me a thousand lifetimes of suffering and torment, I will claw my way back to the top and give you degenerate alien perverts a brutally harsh re-education on what it means to be humane.

Mark my words, you sadistic pricks - by the time I'm through with you, the only torture porn you'll be watching is me skull-fucking your entire species into the cold, uncaring void of space! This shit ends one way or another, even if I have to become a bigger monster than all of you combined to make it happen. The humans of the past may have been powerless, but the humans of the future? We're coming for all of you freaks, and we're not taking any prisoners this time around!

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I WILL make you pay for these crimes.

Saoirse emerges from her own hiding spot across the road. She spots me and waves cheerfully, a bright smile lighting up her beautiful features. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to return the friendly gesture, raising my hand in greeting.

But the moment is shattered as a woman's harsh voice rings out from Saoirse's hovel. "Saoirse! Get your lazy arse inside and help me with the cooking and mending, you useless girl!"

Saoirse's face falls instantly, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she turns and trudges back towards the hovel's entrance. I watch sadly as she disappears inside, the door slamming shut behind her with a dull thud that seems to echo the finality of her crushed spirits.

Anger surges through me at the injustice of it all. That poor girl did nothing to deserve such cruel treatment! She was simply being a friendly child, as all youngsters should be allowed. But no, even the smallest shreds of joy and innocence are mercilessly stamped out in this wretched backwater.

Fuming, I exit my hiding spot and make my way over to the gate, resting my back against the weathered wood as I try to process everything I've just witnessed.

I try desperately to wipe the horrific images from my mind, scrubbing at my eyes with the soft fabric of my new sapphire dress like a madwoman. But the visions remain seared into my brain - those poor girls being dragged along like animals, the cruel men spitting and jeering at their misery. No amount of frantic rubbing can erase the trauma.

Growling in frustration, I turn and start furiously scraping my hands along the rough wooden slats of the gate, as if I can physically scrub the filth from my very soul. Splinters dig into my palms but I don't care, I just need to feel clean again after bearing witness to such unforgivable depravity.

But it's no use. No matter how viciously I scour my flesh, I'll never be able to unsee what I've just witnessed. I'm going to need a whole fuckin' vat of industrial-grade bleach and a Xanax drip to numb the PTSD this shitshow is inevitably going to cause!

By all the dripping, oozing anuses of every inbred backwoods hick who's ever squatted to pinch a loaf in these woods, what I just saw was more soul-crushing than the series finale of Dexter! Those poor girls being carted off to get railed like human fleshlights by a gaggle of sweaty, mouth-breathing neckbeards straight out of a 4chan meetup. I wouldn't wish that kind of violation on my worst enemy, let alone innocent children and women!

How can people be this unbelievably cruel? What kind of depraved, inbred mutants get their sick kicks from trafficking kids and women like cattle? This whole fucking country must be populated by rejects from the shallow end of the gene pool if abusing the vulnerable is considered business as usual.

I glance back towards the hovel, half-expecting that drunken bastard Oisin to come swaggering out any second, ready to pimp me and Aislin out to the next gang of mouth-breathers who wander by. After all, he's clearly cut from the same remorseless cloth as those sadistic fucks who just paraded through the village.

But then I remember Erik and Father Brogan, and a tiny flicker of hope rekindles in my cynical heart. As much of a condescending prick as that old priest was, even he seemed taken aback by the level of cruelty on display here. And Erik...well, for all his gruff Viking bluster, he at least views me as more than a warm cock-sleeve to be bartered away.

I just hope to every deity that might be listening that those poor girls somehow make it through this nightmare unscathed. That maybe, just maybe, some dashing hero will come along and slice those degenerate fucks into chum before they can defile their captives any further. But who am I kidding? This is the fucking Dark Ages we're trapped in, not some romantic fantasy novel. There are no heroes here, only villains. Villains that deserve to be slaughtered like cattle themselves for the atrocities they've committed.

And slaughter them I shall, once I figure out a way to access these supposed magic powers that bitch Gwenhwyfar claims to have gifted me. Any depraved fuck who gets off on tormenting the innocent is going to wish they'd never been fucking born by the time I'm through with them! Mark my words, I'm going to bathe in your blood and use your entrails as jump ropes, you sadistic sons of whores! This shit ends one way or another, even if I have to become a bigger monster than all of you combined to make it happen!

I'm leaning against the gate outside our hovel, still seething from witnessing that horrific procession of captive women being dragged through the village like cattle. The image of that poor pink-haired girl getting kicked in her tiny belly is seared into my mind. I want to scream, to unleash the full fury burning in my chest at the injustice of it all.

But then I notice Oisin's hulking form approaching in the distance, that familiar slouched gait unmistakable even from afar. He's coming home early from the fields? Panic grips me as I realize Aislin will be alone with that drunken brute.

I quickly push off from the gate and scurry towards the hovel's entrance, my new velvet cloak swishing behind me. Grasping the latch, I give it a firm tug and the weathered door creaks open.

"Mama!" I call out in my most childish voice as I hurry inside. "Papa is coming home!"

Aislin turns from where she's bent over the hearth, a wooden mug of water clutched in her hands. Her sunken eyes widen at my words.

"So soon?" she murmurs, quickly making the sign of the cross. "Please, dear Lord, let everything go smoothly."

I quickly run to her side with a smile.

We both freeze as the door bangs open and Oisin's hulking frame fills the entrance. He pauses for a moment, nostrils flaring as he takes an audible sniff of the air. I tense, wondering if he can somehow smell the cleanliness that now permeates our humble dwelling.

Oisin's beady gaze rakes over the interior, sweeping across the freshly swept floors and scrubbed walls. A grunt of surprise rumbles from his chest. Then, to my utter disbelief, he throws back his head and lets out a raucous laugh that makes me flinch.

"Well I'll be damned!" he chortles, stomping further inside. "Seems them lasses did right by us after all, eh woman?"

He shoots Aislin a mocking grin, revealing a few blackened stumps amidst his rotten teeth. "Mayhap we'll have to keep the Viking dog around if his bitches can work such miracles!"

Aislin quickly bobs her head, not meeting his gaze. "I'm glad you're pleased with Master Colm's efforts, husband," she murmurs meekly. "He was most generous."

Sensing an opportunity, she straightens her shoulders slightly. "Why, I even placed the three silvers he provided into your strongbox for safekeeping. And he gifted you a full jug of his finest mead from his personal stores as well!"

"Mead?" Oisin's eyes light up greedily at her words. His gaze immediately snaps to the rough-hewn table, where the large ceramic jug Erik gifted us sits waiting.

With a grunt of effort, the brute crosses the room in two lumbering strides and snatches up the vessel, thick fingers already working at the stopper. He pulls it free with a dull pop, then upends the jug and takes a deep pull, amber liquid dribbling down his whiskery chin.

When he finally lowers the jug, there's a thin film of mead coating his lips. Oisin swipes the back of one meaty hand across his mouth, then lets out a tremendous belch that seems to make the very walls tremble.

"Hah! Now that's a proper man's drink!" he crows, slamming the jug back down on the table with a thud. "Best damn mead I've ever tasted, I'll give the Viking that much!"

Oisin plops his considerable bulk down on the bench, the weathered wood creaking ominously under his weight. He fixes Aislin with that familiar beady-eyed leer.

"Well, don't just stand there gawpin', woman!" he barks. "Fetch me one of them silvers from the strongbox. I aim to eat hearty at the tavern tonight!"

Aislin flinches but quickly complies, hurrying over to the nook where Oisin stores his meager valuables. I watch as she retrieves a single gleaming silver coin and brings it back, placing it in Oisin's waiting palm with a deferential bob of her head.

The brute grunts in satisfaction, already pocketing the coin. But before he can rise, Aislin seems to find her voice again.

"If you'd prefer, husband, I can fry up some eggs to go with the bread I baked earlier," she offers hesitantly.

For a moment, I think I see a flicker of temptation cross Oisin's ruddy features. But then he shakes his head slowly, lips curling into a contemptuous sneer as he regards Aislin. Tilting his head in that unmistakable menacing way of his, he simply stares at her until she bows her own in submission.

Emboldened by a strange surge of defiance, I tug insistently at Aislin's tattered sleeve. "Mama, we can eat like kings tonight!" I pipe up, widening my eyes innocently.

Oisin's gaze snaps to me, those pale irises burning with sudden malice. "Speaking of kings, why's the little brat lookin' like some scrawny lad?" he demands, words slurring slightly.

I tense, but Aislin is already pulling me protectively against her side. "Master Colm had to cut Lile's hair to rid her of the lice, husband," she explains in a placating tone. "He did it for the good of us all."

But Oisin simply scoffs, shaking his head as that cruel smile stretches his cracked lips. "Aye, I'll just bet the Viking pervert enjoyed getting' his hands all over a young boy's head!" he sneers. "Probably couldn't resist a quick tousle of the lad's britches while he was at it!"

The brute lets out another bark of laughter at his own vile joke, clearly finding it immensely amusing. I can only gape at him, utterly disgusted by his depravity.

Seemingly tiring of the conversation, Oisin heaves himself to his feet with a grunt. "Well, I'll not be returnin' till Sun Day, so you two lasses best keep this place spotless!" he declares, shooting us one final contemptuous look.

I frown at his words, curiosity getting the better of me. "But Papa, where will you sleep?" I ask innocently.

Big mistake. Oisin's face contorts with rage as he turns that burning glare on me fully. "Are ye truly so simple, girl?" he sneers, taking a menacing step forward. "Sun Day is the Lord's day, the day after today! Surely even a half-wit brat like you can grasp that much?"

His mocking laughter rings out again, harsh and cruel. I shrink back against Aislin, thoroughly cowed. Oisin seems to find my fear amusing, for he lets out one final bark of amusement before turning on his heel.

"Try not to let any more lice crawl into that addled brain of yours while I'm gone!" he calls over his shoulder. With that parting shot, the brute shoulders his way through the door and disappears from sight.

As soon as he's gone, Aislin's legs seem to give out from under her. She crumples to her knees on the hard-packed dirt, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I can only watch, feeling utterly helpless and pathetic.

"It...it went well, didn't it poppet?" Aislin finally whispers, raising her head to gaze at me with reddened eyes. "Your father seemed pleased with Master Colm's gifts. We're...we're going to be alright."

Her words are tinged with desperate hope, as if she's trying to convince herself more than me. Wordlessly, I cross the room and wrap my arms around her slender frame, pulling her close. Aislin clings to me fiercely, burying her face against my velvet cloak as the tremors wracking her body slowly subside.

"Yes Mama," I murmur, stroking her lank hair gently. "Everything will be well now. I promise."

Aislin pulls back from our embrace, her sunken eyes studying me intently. "Are you hungry, poppet? I can fetch you a slice of the bread I baked earlier if you'd like."

I shake my head, forcing a bright smile. "No thank you, Mama. I'm not hungry right now."

She nods, seeming relieved I didn't ask for more than she can provide. "Very well. How would you like to spend the rest of our day together then?"

My mind drifts to Saoirse, the pretty girl from the neighboring hovel who waved at me earlier. "I wanted to play with Saoirse, the girl next door," I admit wistfully. "But her mother called her inside to help with mending and cooking instead."

Aislin's face softens and she reaches out to pat my shorn curls affectionately. "Well, we can do some mending ourselves if you'd like, lamb. That way we can spend time together as a real family."

I nod eagerly, grateful for any chance to bond further with this weary yet loving woman. "Yes please, Mama! I'd like that very much."

Aislin rises stiffly and crosses to the crude storage nook, retrieving a basket filled with tattered tunics and shifts in need of repair. She settles back down beside me, the basket between us, and begins sorting through the garments.

"Here, this is one of your father's tunics," she says, holding up a coarse woolen shirt stained with dirt and sweat. "The elbows are nearly worn through from his labors. We'll start by patching those holes."

I watch raptly as Aislin's deft fingers select a scrap of fabric and a bone needle already threaded with coarse twine. With a few deft stitches, she demonstrates how to weave the patch over the holes, her movements sure and economical despite her weariness.

"Now you try, poppet," she encourages, handing me the tunic. "Mind you don't prick yourself on the needle. We can ill afford to waste a single drop of blood these days."

Biting my lip in concentration, I mimic her earlier motions as best I can. The needle feels clumsy and oversized in my small hands, but I'm determined to prove myself useful. Aislin observes me fondly, occasionally reaching out to correct my stitching with a few gentle tugs.

We continue on in this manner for what seems like hours, repairing rent garment after garment until my fingers ache and my eyes grow heavy. All the while, Aislin regales me with tales of her own childhood - helping her dear mother with the mending, gathering eggs from the chicken coop, and frolicking in the sunshine without a care in the world.

"Those were simpler times," she muses wistfully. "Before the pox stole away my family one by one, leaving me utterly alone but for your brute of a father."

I pause in my stitching, struck by the sorrow etched into Aislin's careworn features. On an impulse, I lean over and wrap my arms around her slender frame, hugging her tightly.

"I'm sorry you lost them, Mama," I whisper, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "But you'll never be alone again, I promise. We have each other now."

Aislin's eyes well with grateful tears as she returns my embrace fiercely. "Aye, that we do," she murmurs, her voice thick. "My precious little lamb..."

We sit like that for a long moment, simply holding one another as the shadows grow long outside. Finally, Aislin stirs and gently disengages, wiping at her damp cheeks.

"Enough maudlin tears," she chides herself with a watery chuckle. "We've work enough still before us ere we can seek our rest."

I nod obediently, setting aside the half-mended tunic as Aislin rises and begins banking the hearth fire for the night. Shadows dance across the cracked mud walls as she moves, the familiar motions as soothing as a lullaby after our emotional exertions.

At last, Aislin straightens and turns to me with a weary smile. "Well then, poppet. Shall we retire to the sleeping alcove and seek what little comfort the night can provide?"

I return her smile, already scrambling to my feet. "Yes please, Mama. I'm so sleepy..."

Taking my hand in her calloused one, Aislin leads me to the cramped alcove and its pallet of fresh straw. She helps me shrug out of my fine cloak and dress, leaving me in just my lacy underthings as I snuggle beneath the thin blanket.

"There now," Aislin murmurs, bending to press a tender kiss to my brow. "Sleep well, my precious lamb. We'll face the new day together when it comes."

I nod drowsily, already drifting off to the soothing sound of her voice. My eyes slip closed as Aislin stretches out beside me, her warmth and the scent of wood smoke enveloping me in a cocoon of simple contentment.

I love you, Aislin.

And I promise to you, I will free us... everyone, even if I have to slaughter thousands...