Here is my offering, and my first attempt at speculative fiction.
From the Prologue of a Fantasy 'olgy' (not quite sure how long yet!). Multiple races, religions and (even in the background) multiple worlds. Working title - Union: The Concordance Cycle (though I'm sure that will be thrown out the window if I ever find an agent/publisher).
Premise - Is Equality a Universal Right?
Set against a backdrop of a world where certain cultures have access to divine energies The Godstream/The Ordaë (maijic) to help them survive/thrive, where some don't, it explores equality and diversity as intrinsic rights, and how people respond and act when faced with disparity - with the usual cast of human/non human races etc. - dealing with equality & inclusivity across ethnicity/gender & sexuality/ability & disability/mental health & mental functioning.
This section is a dream/vision sequence forewarning a key protagonist of what is coming.
Would love to get feedback on how far off-the-mark/derivative/wonky (technical term) this is :)
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One voice made many, or myriad made one. It was unknowable.
She was in blackness. The inky void alive with emotion and pain. Each new moment bringing waves of agony lancing her like shards. Pain, not hers, referred, but no less piecing and excruciating for the fact. Wave upon wave, upon wave it drowned her in its torment. Her mind accepting each onslaught without volition. She could do nothing else.
Of why she was here and whose suffering she lived she had no understanding, but, without question, she knew that her ordeal was true. She was living that which had been experienced, or would be.
The pitch of the scream rose, yet more voices joining, the crescendo beyond bearing. When she felt she could take no more, the darkness shrank and into the grey came depictions of horror. She prayed for blindness, to no effect. Battlefield strewn with hacked and torn bodies. Dismembered beings of many races and forms. The dead and dying innumerable. Past? Or a vision of the yet to come?
And unbidden and unspoken came to her the words “The Godstream Wars”.
The vista stretched panoramic, immersive. Around her the visceral smells and sights of wanton carnage. Rich metallic blood cut through the sweet smell of cooked flesh. The sharp stink of weapons fired jousted with the scent of putrefaction, the energy signature of killing maijics. Bouquets of death. The land, many tens of miles of low flat land, had become the definition of slaughter.