Good, let the poison flow, you bastard! I think viciously, even as Oisin straightens with a wheezing laugh.

"Well I'll be damned, seems I'd near forgot me own wife's family name!" he chuckles, wiping his bloodied lips. "Lucky for me I get to have yer own flesh and blood under this very roof, eh Aislin?"

Aislin's face crumples, tears spilling down her cheeks as she shakes her head frantically. "No, Oisin, ye cannot mean to take Maeve as well! I'll not see me own sister suffer the same cruel fate as I!"

But Oisin merely sneers at her distress. "Ye think I give two feckin' tuds what ye want, woman? If the lasses are kin, all the better - they can learn to share me cock and seed like proper whores!"

His words make me seethe with rage, but before I can react Oisin continues with a cruel smirk.

"An' that ain't all I'll be sharin' with the pair of ye, neither!"

My eyes widen as Oisin leans in, his rancid breath hot on my face.

"See, if this old bastard happens to kick the bucket anytime soon, everythin' I own gets passed to McDermott straightaway - includin' me women!"

Holy fuck...if this monster dies, we all get sold into slavery at that depraved tavern? Panic grips me as the full implications sink in. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

"Aye, that means even yer precious Colm's claim on ye will be null and void, little Lile!" Oisin crows with a harsh laugh. "So ye'd best start prayin' this cock keeps workin' for a good while yet!"

Time seems to slow as Oisin's vile words sink in. I try to think quickly, processing this new nightmare scenario. Well, I did attempt to poison the bastard gradually with that meadow saffron Erik provided, hoping his death wouldn't seem too abrupt. And I'd hoped that with Oisin gone, Erik's promise to take Aislin as his wife would give me the chance to get her away from this wretched existence.

But this? If that drunken fucker dies now, we'll essentially become cumdumpsters for whatever sick depravities take place at McDermott's tavern! The very thought makes my stomach churn. And to make matters even more twisted, it seems Oisin plans to buy Aislin's own sister Maeve as one of his sex slaves too?

We can barely find a moment's peace in this godforsaken backwater as it is. Every time I think I've got a handle on our dire situation, some fresh new horror gets lobbed right at us. Just...great. What else could possibly go wrong at this point?

"Fuck" doesn't even begin to cover the sheer fuckedupedness of it all. I was desperately hoping to at least keep Aislin away from Oisin's foul cock and rancid seed. But now I've got two women to try protecting from his depraved lusts? Fantastic.

I really, really need to find a way to get Aislin over to Erik and get her pregnant at his cottage before that drunken animal can defile her again. Not that bearing Erik's spawn is much better in the grand scheme of things, but I'll take any small victory I can grasp at this point.

I analyze the situation step-by-step, trying to formulate some kind of plan, but no matter how I break it down, I can't see any path that doesn't end in total catastrophe. Oisin has outmaneuvered me at every turn, the lecherous bastard. He's got me in checkmate, boxed into an inescapable corner with no recourse.

Well played, you sadistic monster. You've won this round - for now. But I swear on whatever gods you peasants hold sacred, I will not rest until I've utterly destroyed you and everything you've schemed for. This is far from over.

I gaze around the cramped hovel, my brow furrowing as I ponder the bizarre situation I find myself trapped in. How can those supposed "aliens" derive any enjoyment from witnessing such abject misery and degradation? This wretched existence is akin to some depraved snuff film, where I'm left powerless and devoid of agency, forced to endure one torment after another with no choices or means of escape.

Are they truly so sadistic as to revel in crafting this bleak, unrelenting misery porn solely for their twisted amusement? It boggles the mind to fathom what sort of pathological impulses could drive an entire species to such depravity. Unless...unless their complacency extends far beyond merely tormenting me psychologically. What if their callous disregard encompasses every poor human-alien hybrid soul inhabiting this nightmarish realm?

The more I mull it over, the more that grim hypothesis seems plausible. After all, if their sole aim was to torment me specifically, surely they'd tailor the scenarios to maximize my personal anguish rather than subjecting me to these generalized peasant hardships? No, their indifference must be directed at the entire population, treating us all as mere playthings to be casually abused and discarded at their whim.

If only I could recall the visages and identities of these so-called "aliens" who rule over this realm. With that missing fragment of my memories, I could perhaps deduce their motivations and psyche with greater clarity. Alas, that final 10% engram remains stubbornly locked away in the recesses of my mind, leaving me to hypothesize blindly about the nature of my tormentors.

Still, I am not without my powers of deduction and analysis. If I approach this quandary from a psychological perspective, perhaps I can postulate the type of sentient species who would find such unrelenting torment and misery to be...entertaining? Of course, I run the risk of anthropomorphizing them by projecting human traits and psychologies. But it's a necessary conceit if I'm to grasp any insight into their alien thought processes.

So, what sort of pathological mindset could potentially extract "enjoyment" from the anguished spectacle of millions of sapient beings trapped in an endless cycle of suffering, degradation and powerlessness? A cruel, sadistic psychopathy seems the most obvious hypothesis - a complete lack of empathy coupled with an insatiable need to inflict torment upon their victims, deriving pleasure from the exquisite misery they unleash.

But that seems almost...too simplistic an explanation, does it not? Surely even the most twisted human psychopaths would eventually grow bored by such a static, unrelenting tableau of torment with no variation or progression? No, these "aliens" must possess a more complex, multifaceted form of psychopathology to sustain their interest across eons of orchestrating our collective suffering.

Perhaps they view us not as individuals worthy of consideration, but more akin to microorganisms in a petri dish - disposable raw materials to be cultivated and experimented upon in service of some inscrutable alien agenda? A detached, clinical disregard for the anguish they inflict, all in pursuit of satisfying their own ineffable scientific curiosity or ideological dogma?

Or could it be some perverse amalgamation of the two - a sadistic, predatory glee in witnessing our torment that's further compounded by the intellectual satisfaction of using us as unwitting subjects in their deranged sociological experiments? Inflicting exquisitely calculated agonies upon us not just for their amusement, but to meticulously document and analyze our responses, our anguished screams and pleas for mercy the alien equivalent of dry academic data to be coldly dissected and theorized over?

I shudder at the thought, my skin crawling with revulsion. To be regarded with such utter contempt, viewed as mere tools to sate the grotesque curiosities of a supremely advanced, yet utterly depraved alien civilization...it's the stuff of humanity's darkest nightmares given form.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

And yet, as I gaze around at the squalid conditions and abject misery endemic to this primitive backwater, I cannot escape the grim conclusion that some manner of monstrous, amoral psychopathy lies at the core of whatever alien mindset conceived of this hellish realm. For what manner of ethical, enlightened beings could possibly countenance - nay, eagerly perpetuate - the systematic oppression, exploitation and ceaseless torment of an entire sapient species?

No, the more I dwell upon it, the more inescapable the truth becomes - our creators, our alien overlords, are a profoundly sick and twisted breed. Sadists, psychopaths, and sociopaths of the highest order, devoid of even the most rudimentary ethical constraints or compassion. Beings of such utter amorality and depravity that they can dispassionately inflict the most appalling agonies upon us for the sake of their own perverse gratification, be it sensual or intellectual...

Time resumes its steady march as Aislin turns to Oisin, her brow furrowed. "But why do you go to such lengths, husband?" she asks, a tremor in her voice.

Oisin throws back his head and guffaws, the sound like gravel crunching underfoot. "Well now, if it isn't because my own wife can't seem to birth me a proper son!" He jabs a thick finger at Aislin. "But there's more to it than that, to be sure."

Leaning back, Oisin smiles crookedly, revealing a few missing teeth. "Y'see, I'm hopin' to get us exempted from the lord's taxes by promisin' any sons I breed to serve as his soldiers."

My eyes widen at this revelation. So that's his game - trying to weasel out of the tithes by peddling off his own flesh and blood to Eamonn's ranks. Clever bastard.

"Aye, not just exempted from the land tax and hovel rent, but the church tithes too!" Oisin crows, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "With those exemptions, plus the weekly silvers that Colm pays, and the three gold he's promised when our little Lile starts bleedin'...why, I'll have enough to buy my way out of serfdom entirely!"

He slaps his meaty palm on the table, making me jump. "Can you imagine, woman? A freeman at last, no longer beholden to any landed bastard's whims! That's the dream I chase with every breath in this miserable life."

Oisin's gaze grows distant for a moment before he gives himself a shake. "Course, if I happened to kick the bucket before that..." He shrugs nonchalantly. "You'd be left a beggar on the streets, like as not. Probably get raped and murdered within a week, seein' as how no man wants a used-up whore for a wife."

I seethe inwardly at his callous words, my small hands clenching into fists. As if Erik wouldn't take Aislin in and provide for her! This ignorant bastard has no idea...

"See, woman?" Oisin sneers, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. "I take care to mind your wellbeing, don't I?"

I can't help but scoff under my breath at his delusional arrogance. As if this drunken wretch ever did anything for anyone but himself!

"Well, don't just stand there gawpin' like a half-wit!" Oisin suddenly barks at Aislin. "Get my eggs and bread ready, I want to eat this fine meat with some proper garnish!"

Aislin flinches, then bows her head meekly. "Aye, husband. I'll prepare it straightaway."

As she turns away, I catch the glint of tears streaking down her sallow cheeks. A lump rises in my throat as I watch her hunched form retreat to the hearth, wishing I could somehow ease her suffering and bring a genuine smile to her careworn face.

But what can I do, trapped in this helpless child's body? I'm as powerless as she is against Oisin's drunken rages. For now, all I can offer is silent solidarity as we endure the torment of this wretched existence.

One day, though...one day I'll make them all pay for the anguish they've inflicted. This, I vow.

Oisin's gruff voice breaks the silence, "Bought us a new bench and table, lass."

He grunts, shifting on the rickety bench. "Got yer ma some new boots too. And a pretty ribbon for the birthday girl tomorrow."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise at his words. Oisin actually bought gifts? For us? He glances up, adding, "Gotta fix that leaky roof soon too, afore we're all soaked come the next rain."

I'm utterly shocked. Is he...being thoughtful? Providing for his family? I eye him curiously and ask, "You got me a ribbon, papa? Can I see?"

Oisin nods and reaches into his tattered tunic, pulling out a long strip of emerald green silk. "Aye, green goes well with that blonde hair o' yers." He beckons me over and deftly weaves the ribbon through my shorn curls, tying it in a neat bow. "There ya go, lass."

Turning to Aislin at the hearth, he calls out, "Woman, fetch them boots from the cellar. Let's have a look at 'em."

Aislin quickly complies, disappearing through the low doorway. I hear her rummaging in the cramped cellar before she re-emerges, clutching a pair of soft leather boots. The rich brown leather has been carefully oiled to a soft sheen, with intricate patterns tooled along the uppers. Sturdy soles of thick hide protect the underside, while the tops reach up to just below Aislin's calves, lacing tightly with strips of supple deerskin.

"Oh Oisin..." Aislin breathes, eyes shining with gratitude. "You shouldn't have..." She quickly unwinds the grimy linen wraps from her feet and slips the buttery soft boots on, lacing them up with deft motions.

But Oisin just grunts, waving a dismissive hand. "Go clean up that blood from yer skirts, woman. Disgustin' to look at."

I seethe inwardly at his crude words, even as Aislin simply nods meekly. She grabs a scrap of linen from the washbucket and heads outside, no doubt to rinse the stains from her soiled dress.

When she returns a few minutes later, she's smiling as she resumes tending to the eggs sizzling in the battered iron pot over the hearth's crackling flames. The delicious aroma of rendered pork fat wafts through the cramped hovel.

Grunting with effort, Oisin suddenly rises and hauls the old, rickety bench and table outside, leaving them in a heap by the door. He ducks back inside, emerging with a brand new oak bench and matching table, both sanded to a rich, warm glow.

The bench is a solid plank of sturdy oak, the polished wood still bearing the curved whorls of the original grain. Thick, squared legs have been securely joined, ensuring the seat won't wobble or creak with every shift of weight.

The table is just as well-crafted, a solid slab of oak supported by a thick base and sturdy legs. Oisin sets it down with a grunt, then positions the bench in front, giving the new furniture an experimental rap with his knuckles.

"Had the village carpenter make these special," he remarks gruffly. "Proper oak, built to last. Won't be needin' replacements for years to come."

I blink at him, stunned by this uncharacteristic display of foresight and care for our home. Is he...trying to be a good father? The thought is so foreign, so utterly at odds with the drunken brute I've come to know.

Unable to contain myself, I blurt out, "You're a good papa, Oisin!"

He chuckles, a deep rumbling in his broad chest, and gives me an appraising look. "That I am, lass. Providin' for me family, as any good man should."

I realize with a start that I can no longer keep slipping the poisonous meadow saffron into his ale. I can't allow him to die... yet. I sigh heavily.

Oisin arches one bushy brow at my sigh. "What's that for, then? Ye don't like the pretty ribbon I bought ye?"

Pasting on my most innocent expression, I quickly shake my head and pipe up in a bright, childish tone. "No no, papa! I love the ribbon, it's so pretty! I'm just a wee bit cold is all."

Seemingly satisfied, Oisin grunts and settles his bulk onto the new bench, giving it an experimental bounce. I watch him surreptitiously, my brow furrowing as I try to make sense of his uncharacteristic behavior. What's gotten into the bastard? This thoughtfulness, this...dare I say it, tenderness...it's so unlike him. I don't understand this sudden change at all.

Perhaps he's finally realized how close he came to losing everything? That if I'd perished from the croup, he'd be left with nothing - no bride price from Erik, no exemptions from the lord's tithes, no chance at buying his freedom? Is providing for his family a calculated move, a pragmatic decision to ensure his dreams of wealth and status remain intact?

Or...could there be an actual spark of decency buried beneath that drunken, abusive exterior? A glimmer of the man he might have been, before the drink and disappointments twisted his soul?

I shake my head, letting out a soft snort of derision. No, that's far too generous. This is the same vile bastard who routinely rapes and beats his wife, who casually speaks of pimping out his own daughters to earn coin. A few gifts don't change that fundamental ugliness.

Perhaps I've been too quick to condemn him? Too eager to see Oisin as a one-dimensional monster, unworthy of anything but my hatred and scorn? If he's truly turning over a new leaf, extending an olive branch...well, it would be foolish not to accept, would it not? To cling bitterly to the past, blind to any potential for change and redemption?

My eyes narrow as I study Oisin's weathered features, searching for any hint of deception. For now, I'll play along. Smile and nod and act the grateful, obedient daughter he seems to want. But I won't let my guard down entirely, not yet.

This new persona could be naught but a calculated ruse, another twisted scheme to secure his ambitions through our subjugation...?

"We need more logs for the fire, Oisin," Aislin calls out, her voice strained from tending the hearth. "It's bitter cold tonight."

She moves to head outside, but Oisin raises a calloused hand. "Stay put, woman. I'll fetch the wood meself."

I blink in surprise as the burly peasant heaves himself off the bench and lumbers toward the door. What's gotten into him? Oisin never does manual labor if he can avoid it.

Sure enough, he returns moments later with an armful of fresh-cut logs, which he carefully stacks beside the hearth before prodding the glowing embers with an iron poker. The flames crackle and hiss, bathing the cramped hovel in a warm, flickering glow.[...]