A flurry of strikes now, battering Oisin's face into a swollen, bloody mess as Sean vents years of pent-up fury. "You dare call yourself a man, yet you treat your own flesh and blood worse than dogs!"

I can't help grinning from ear to ear as I watch, utterly enthralled by the savage beating unfolding before me. With each sickening crunch of Sean's fists impacting Oisin's battered flesh, my smile stretches wider in sadistic glee.

"And my niece!" Sean snarls, grabbing a fistful of Oisin's matted hair and slamming his face into the dirt floor. "A helpless child, yet you visited the same cruelties upon her tender form!"

Another vicious punch, this one a wild haymaker that sprays a fine mist of blood across the walls. "You're not even fit to lick the filth from her boots, you wretched dog!"

Oisin can only gurgle weakly in response, his eyes swollen shut and his mouth a ruined mess of torn flesh. Sean rears back, chest heaving, and spits a mouthful of phlegm directly into the bastard's battered face.

"Consider this a taste of the suffering yet to come, wretch," he growls, finally climbing off Oisin's prone form. "For if I discover that slave wench Maeve is indeed our own blood kin..."

Sean leans down, his handsome features twisted into a mask of pure, unbridled rage. "Then I'll return here and separate your worthless head from your shoulders myself!"

With that, he straightens and turns towards me, his piercing blue eyes finding mine. "I'll be back shortly, little one. But first, I must visit this McDermott and ascertain the truth for myself."

I nod solemnly, still grinning like a loon as Sean strides over and retrieves his sword from my hands. As he turns to leave, I can't resist one final parting shot - leaning down, I draw back and let fly a thick gob of saliva to splatter across Oisin's bloodied, semi-conscious face.

Hah! Let the bastard marinate in his just deserts for a while. I'm practically giddy with anticipation for what Uncle Sean might unleash next!

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! I tilt my head back, staring up at the thatched ceiling of this cramped shithole we call home. Oh man, this feels so fucking good! I can feel the euphoria building, like a tidal wave of pure satisfaction cresting inside me. Any second now and I'm gonna have a goddamn braingasm, I swear!

All I need is for Uncle Sean to come waltzing back in here dragging that greasy shitstain McDermott's severed head behind him. Just picturing the look of abject horror frozen on that degenerate's face as the life drains from his eyes...oh fuck yeah, that'll do it! I'll blow the biggest mental load of my multiple lives, no question!

Not that this scrawny kid body could handle a real physical climax anyway. I'm nowhere near mature enough for that kind of release yet. But a nice, hearty braingasm? Where I just let the endorphins and adrenaline flood my brain with pure, undiluted ecstasy? Yeah, that I can definitely achieve right about now!

I tear my gaze from the ceiling, letting it drift back down to the crumpled, bloody mess that was once Oisin. The drunken bastard's gurgling wetly, choking on his own fluids as his swollen eyes struggle to open. His whole face is just...pulped. A distended, disfigured lump of meat and shattered bone.

Goddamn, Sean really did a number on the miserable cunt! I almost feel bad for the pathetic sack of shit. Hah, who am I kidding? I should spit on him again just to add a little extra insult to that grievous injury. But nah, Aislin's already shuffling over to tend to her "beloved husband" like the broken-spirited doormat she is.

I sneer in disgust as she fusses over Oisin's ruined form. What a fucking waste. The stupid bitch just can't help herself, can she? Always putting that worthless pig's needs before her own, no matter how many times he beats and degrades her.

Not that I give a flying fuck about Aislin's hangdog existence, mind you. I'm just annoyed she didn't have the good sense to let that drunken shitweasel bleed out on the floor. Could've saved us all a lot of grief and misery down the road.

But hey, enough dwelling on the negatives! I need to bask in this beautiful moment while I still can. Oisin got exactly what was coming to him - a fist-flavored shit sandwich with a side of caved-in face! The dumb bastard's lucky I didn't get to take a few swings myself. I would've gladly bashed his fucking skull in like an overripe pumpkin!

Ahhhhh yeah, this is the good stuff right here. Seeing that worthless sack of rancid pig shit get his ass kicked all the way into next week...it's like an early Solstice gift from the universe! I can feel the warm fuzzies radiating through me already. Who needs a yule log when you've got a beaten wife-beater oozing blood and drool all over your nice clean floor?

Hahahaha, oh fuck! This is too rich! That dumb motherfucker had it coming for miles, and now he's got his face rearranged into a Picasso painting because of it! Shit, if this doesn't qualify as an all-time top ten braingasm moment, I don't know what does! Hahahahaha!

I look down at Oisin's battered form with a sadistic grin, then turn to Aislin who is kneeling beside him.

"Is papa going to be okay?" I ask in my best childlike tone, feigning innocence and concern.

Aislin glances up at me, her eyes wide with panic. "Y-Yes, lamb, he'll be just fine," she stammers unconvincingly.

Oisin lets out a pained groan, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. I lean closer, straining to make out his words through the wet, gurgling sounds.

"...kill...that bastard..."

I can't help but snicker at the drunken oaf's impotent threats. As if he could ever best Sean in his current state!

The warped wooden door suddenly creaks open, and two burly men stride into the cramped hovel. I take in their appearances with keen interest.

The first is a stout, barrel-chested fellow with a thick beard and beady eyes set in a ruddy, pockmarked face. His grimy tunic and breeches reek of sweat and ale, and a sheath at his belt holds a well-worn dagger.

The second man is taller and leaner, with a mop of lank brown hair hanging past his shoulders. His features are more refined, almost noble-looking, but the effect is ruined by the ugly sneer twisting his thin lips.

"What in God's name happened here?" the bearded man demands gruffly, eyes widening at the sight of Oisin's mangled form.

Aislin flinches, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "M-My brother Sean...he did this," she whispers, voice trembling. "He came and beat Oisin near to death!"

The two men exchange a look, the taller one's sneer deepening into a scowl. Without a word, he strides over and hauls Oisin's dead weight up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

"I'll take this wretch to Colm, the village healer," he grunts. "See if the old quack can piece him back together."

The bearded man nods curtly, then turns back to Aislin. "And where did this Sean bastard run off to after working over your husband?"

Aislin swallows hard. "H-He said he was going to the tavern..."

"The tavern?!" The bearded man's eyes go wide, then narrow to slits. "Then I'll need to rouse the rest of the village men and have them meet me there. We can't let this madman run rampant!"

Aislin lets out a choked sob, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders shake. I watch the display with detached amusement, unable to muster even an ounce of pity.

"Can I come see Uncle Sean at the tavern?" I pipe up suddenly, unable to resist a bit of mischief.

The bearded man whirls to face me, his expression one of shock. "You?! A mere child at McDermott's sinkhole?" He shakes his head vehemently. "That's no place for an innocent lass like yourself, missy."

With that, the two men turn and shuffle out, half-carrying, half-dragging Oisin's limp form between them. I watch their retreating figures through the open doorway, my grin stretching wider and more malicious by the second.

Once they've disappeared from view, Aislin rounds on me, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with a rare fire.

"I have to go after Sean and make sure he doesn't do anything foolish in his rage," she says in a low, urgent tone.

I blink up at her innocently. "Where is this tavern, mama?"

Aislin's shoulders slump as she lets out a weary sigh. "It's a bit out of the village proper, down an old dirt path through the woods. But you must stay here and be a good girl while I'm gone!"

She fixes me with a stern look, though it lacks any real force. "Perhaps you could tend to the chickens or...or play with them for a spell? Just don't wander off, you hear?"

I nod obediently, fighting back a smirk. "Yes mama, I'll be good."

Aislin hesitates a moment longer, chewing her lip anxiously. Then she seems to make up her mind, giving me one final nod before hurrying out the door.

The instant she's gone, I throw back my head and let out a peal of high, manic laughter that echoes off the cramped walls.

Oh, this is going to be utterly delicious! Uncle Sean is about to unleash seven shades of hell on that wretched cesspit of depravity. And I've got a front row seat to the whole glorious shitshow! Hahahahaha! Fuck yeah, KARMA BITCH!

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I sit on the hard bench, kicking my little booted feet idly as I ponder my options. Should I follow Aislin to the tavern and witness the chaos Sean is sure to unleash? The thought of watching that brute McDermott get his just deserts is certainly tempting. But then again, seeing what becomes of that drunken wretch Oisin could prove equally satisfying, if Erik has anything to say about his battered state.

Gnawing my lip, I shake my head slowly. No, best not to be too greedy. I've already been treated to the delicious sight of Oisin taking a well-deserved beating at Sean's hands. Pushing my luck further by inserting myself into those volatile situations could prove unwise. Especially when Sean wields that deadly Spellsinger blade - I've no doubt he could slay anyone foolish enough to cross his path right now.

A small, secret smile curves my lips as I imagine the carnage Sean might unleash if pressed too far. Yes, discretion is the better part of valor for now. I'll simply bide my time here, safe within these dingy walls, and await the aftermath of his righteous fury. No need to go chasing further thrills when the opening act has already proven so richly satisfying.

Let's waste some time making hypotheses... That Spellsinger blade Sean wielded...the way it sliced that parchment clean in two with naught but a flick of the hilt? Utterly mystifying from a scientific viewpoint!

I mean, the sword itself is crafted from silver, right? A relatively soft, malleable metal with low tensile strength. Certainly not the ideal material for a weapon meant to cleave through flesh and bone. And yet, with but a twitch of Sean's wrist, that blade unleashed a razor-thin wave of compressed air capable of shearing through the parchment like it was nothing!

How is that even possible? What manner of advanced metallurgy or material science could imbue a simple silver longsword with such preternatural cutting power? Perhaps those intricate runes etched along the blade's length hold the key...

I furrow my brow, recalling the way the sigils seemed to blaze with pale blue light when Sean activated the sword's magic. Almost like they were some kind of arcane circuitry, conducting and amplifying the energy unleashed by his specific hand movements.

Yes, that has to be it! Those runes must act as a complex array of thaumaturgical transistors and capacitors, allowing the blade to store and release concentrated bursts of pneumokinetic force when triggered by the proper input!

I can picture it now - each flick of the hilt sends a pulse of Sean's own bioelectric energy surging through the sword's mystical etchings, their unique geometry and composition acting as a series of logic gates and amplifiers to shape the raw magical power into a specific, directed effect.

In this case, translating the kinetic energy of Sean's wrist motion into a cohesive blade of ultra-high pressure air, no doubt harnessing some kind of advanced acoustic physics to generate a localized wave of destructive interference along a razor-thin plane...

I shake my head slowly, marveling at the sheer sophistication of the Spellsinger's occult engineering. To think, a medieval weaponsmith could intuit such cutting-edge concepts as programmable metamaterials and cymatics, all without access to modern scientific knowledge or tools!

Clearly, there are entire branches of exotic physics and chemistry at play here that I've barely begun to scratch the surface of. Runic circuitry, thaumaturgical field dynamics, applied pneumokinesis - I can only imagine the countless hours of painstaking research and experimentation that must have gone into perfecting such a marvel of magical craftsmanship.

I feel a sudden surge of excitement at the prospect of unraveling the deeper secrets behind the Spellsinger's construction and operation. Oh, to have access to an arcane laboratory equipped with the proper investigative instruments! The material analyses, the stress tests, the high-speed imaging of the blade's acoustic output...

I'd need to examine the sword up close of course, map out the precise geometry and placement of each rune to suss out their individual functions and the overarching "spellware" architecture governing the weapon's abilities as a whole. And naturally, I'd require a few...expendable test subjects to properly assess the Spellsinger's efficacy against a variety of organic and inorganic targets.

It's almost like a solid-state version of those sonic disruptor weapons I've seen in science fiction. Instead of using speakers to generate destructive sound waves, the Spellsinger's runes and circuits allow the metal itself to resonate and unleash those pulses directly. Ingenious, if that's indeed how it functions!

Of course, that raises even more questions about the underlying energy source and control mechanisms. Is it purely mechanical, relying on the physical motion of the hilt flick to initiate the resonant vibrations? Or does it utilize some form of chemical energy storage, maybe even rudimentary electrical circuits to modulate and amplify those pulses?

I must admit, I'm utterly fascinated by this strange "magic" sword and its potential applications of sonic technology. With some experimentation and reverse-engineering, I could likely replicate or even improve upon its core principles using more advanced materials and energy systems. Oooh, I can't wait to get my hands on it and take it apart!

Hmm, no, scratch that - Sean would likely object to me disassembling his precious Spellsinger. Perhaps I could construct my own prototype from raw materials, though? A little hands-on tinkering never hurt anyone. Well, except for that one time with the hydrochloric acid incident back at university...but I digress!

For a moment, I'm lost in visions of gleaming alchemical beakers and crucibles, of glowing runic arrays etched across the walls of my workshop as I put the Spellsinger through its paces, unlocking the hidden potential in its ancient enchantments through the power of the scientific method...

But then reality comes crashing back in and I remember where, and more importantly when I am. A filthy medieval hovel in 4th century Ireland, trapped in the body of a 4-year-old peasant girl. I don't even have reliable access to clean drinking water, let alone an arcane laboratory!

I let out a soft, frustrated huff, my shoulders slumping. As much as it pains me to admit, any rigorous study of Sean's magical sword is simply beyond my reach for now. I'll have to content myself with wild speculation and thought experiments, piecing together what meager clues I can glean from a distance.

By evening, I've grown bored with the limited amusements this cramped hovel and tiny garden can provide. Suddenly, I hear commotion outside - raised voices and the scuffling of boots on hard-packed earth. Curiosity piqued, I scamper over to one of the narrow window slits and peer through the gap.

The sight that greets me is equal parts shocking and deliciously satisfying. There's Dumitra, that regal vampiress in all her crimson-lipped glory, dragging an unconscious Sean by his golden hair! I can't stifle the gasp that escapes my lips as I take in the scene.

But Dumitra isn't alone - a small group of angry peasant men trail behind her, their rough-spun tunics and breeches streaked with mud and grime. And lumbering at the rear is a truly massive specimen, his bulk jiggling with each ponderous step.

Oho, this must be the infamous McDermott himself! I drink in the details greedily, committing them to memory. The man is a positive mountain of flesh, with a ruddy, pockmarked face set in a permanent leer. Stringy tufts of greasy hair cling to his balding pate, and his piggy little eyes bulge with a mixture of rage and thinly veiled terror. His grimy tunic strains against the impressive girth of his protruding belly, the fabric stained and fraying in several places.

"Stop this at once, you feckless curs!" Dumitra's rich contralto rings out, her words laced with scathing disdain. "This man is to be judged by the church's authority, not torn apart by a rabble of ignorant peasants!"

One of the men, a scrawny wretch with a patchy beard, dares to lurch forward and make a grab for Sean's limp form. But Dumitra is far too quick - her slender arm lashes out in a blur of motion, her open palm cracking against the fool's cheek with a resounding slap. He staggers back, clutching the rapidly swelling welt as a thin trickle of blood seeps from the corner of his mouth.

Dumitra doesn't relent, however. With almost casual indifference, she plants one booted foot squarely on the man's chest and gives a deft shove, sending him crashing to the ground in an undignified heap.

"Filthy dog," she sneers, grinding the toe of her boot into his face and forcing him to eat dirt. "Any others care to try my patience further?"

The remaining men shuffle back a few paces, their bravado visibly deflating. Dumitra throws back her head with a rich peal of laughter, clearly reveling in their cowardice.

"I thought not," she purrs, tossing a few stray ebony locks over her shoulder. "Now leave us be, lest I grow...irritated."

With that ominous warning hanging in the air, Dumitra turns on her heel and stalks off, Sean's unconscious form trailing limply behind her. The men remain rooted in place for a few heartbeats before scattering like startled rats, no doubt eager to put as much distance between themselves and that terrifying vampiress as possible.

I can't resist a quiet snicker at their hasty retreat. Cowards, the lot of them! Not that I can entirely blame their fear - Dumitra cuts an intimidating figure even when she's not unleashing her preternatural might.

The raucous scene seems to have drawn Aislin out, for I soon spy her familiar form hurrying through the gate and into our humble garden plot. She pauses to glance around warily before ducking inside the hovel, her brow furrowed with worry.

"There now, lamb," she murmurs once the door is firmly latched behind her. "All will be well for tonight, God willing. We'll have ourselves a simple supper of bread and eggs, then seek our rest while we can."

Putting on my most innocent, childlike demeanor, I pipe up, "I got six whole eggs from the chickens today, mama! We can eat lots and lots."

Aislin manages a faint smile at that. "Did ye now? Well aren't you the clever little lass."

"Mama, what happened to papa? Is he coming back?"

Aislin's smile falters somewhat as she gives a slow nod. "Aye, poppet...your father isn't feeling quite himself at the moment. But fear not - Erik is seeing to his care as we speak. He'll have your papa hale and hearty again before you know it."

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into laughter at her words. Oh Aislin, if only you knew the full extent of the "care" Erik is no doubt providing that drunken wretch!

Forcing an expression of childlike concern, I ask, "So papa will be coming home tomorrow?"

"That's right, lamb," Aislin soothes, moving to stoke the banked coals in the hearth. "On the morrow, once he's fully recovered. But for now, let's get ourselves a bite to eat, shall we? You did say you gathered a nice clutch of eggs for us."

I nod obediently, the perfect picture of an innocent child awaiting her father's return. But inwardly, I'm practically giddy with anticipation for what fresh torments may await that miserable bastard before he's allowed to darken our doorstep again.

Karma's a real bitch sometimes, ain't she?

After me and Aislin eat and retire to sleep, I find myself wide awake staring up at the thatched ceiling of this cramped sleeping alcove, my mind whirling as Aislin snores daintily beside me. Hah, listen to her - she sounds like a fucking Disney princess with sleep apnea! I'll bet she's having the sweetest dreams right about now, visions of sugarplums and Oisin-free tomorrows dancing through her pretty little head.

Speaking of everyone's favorite wife-beating troglodyte, holy shitballs, did you see the way Sean went full Mortal Kombat on his ass?! I swear, for a second there I thought he was gonna rip Oisin's spine out and beat him to death with it! FATALITY, am I right?

I mean, yeah, I'm a little worried about the potential fallout for Sean. Dumitra seems like the type to dish out some pretty hardcore BDSM punishments to her naughty little witch hunters. He'll probably get the cat o' nine tails treatment or some shit. But hey, if anyone can take a licking and keep on ticking, it's good ol' Uncle Sean!

But fuck me sideways, that glorious beatdown was hands down the best birthday present a girl could ask for! Screw the fancy betrothal ring or the pretty ribbon - watching Oisin get his face pounded into medieval hamburger helper was the real gift that kept on giving!

I can barely contain my manic giggles as I replay the brutal scene over and over in my head. God DAMN, what I wouldn't give for a smartphone or a video camera right about now! I'd be blowing up YouTube with that shit, racking up them views like a boss! #OisinGotRekt #FacePunchChallenge #MiddleAgesMMA

Hell, I'd straight up Venmo Gwenhwyfar my left tit for access to the alien archives on the moon, just so I could watch Sean go ham on repeat! Ooh, I wonder if they got that 4K HD slo-mo tech up there? I need to see every gloriously gory detail in ultra-crisp 3840×2160 resolution, baby!

Ugh, but of course, I'm stuck here in this festering turd pile of a timeline, with nothing but my twisted imagination to keep me warm at night. Ah well. A girl can dream, can't she? And tonight, I'll be dreaming of Oisin's pulped face and Sean's righteous fists of fury, over and over again until I drift off into the sweetest, most satisfied slumber of my wretched little life.

Best. Birthday. EVER!!!