Ok, I'm totally new to this site, and I'm not sure if this is the perfect place for this, but I'm an actual (aspiring) writer, and it'd be nice if some people could give be some feedback on this book. I'm pretty sure I'm within the rules, but a warning, it might be a little hard to figure out because it's the first in a trilogy which is a follow-up to another trilogy (which I also wrote and will post if anyone's interested.) But it should stand alone just fine. This is just the first part of the book, and if I get positive 'reviews,' I'll post the rest of it. Oh, and another warning, it is fairly long.
Final note, to anyone who cares: my penname is Sparky Lestat Todd, so that's why the byline has it instead of LPNailz. But neither one is my real name, if that isn't obvious.
Now: ...
KUREN
By: Sparky L. T.
PART 1
2830
NOVEMBER 23
Setting: A darkly lit, stone, octagonal room. In each corner there is a white pillar, and between each pillar stands a black-cloaked form. In the center of the room stands a lone, white-cloaked young man. His name is Küren Ishhillson. His head is bent, and he murmurs after those that surround him. One man steps forward to stand in front of Küren, but his face and form are still obscured by the shadows on the edges of the room and by his pitch-black cloak. He reaches out one hand to draw a finger across the round, silver clasp on Küren’s cloak, and at his touch it falls away. There is a whispering among the figures on the edges of the room, and the one who stepped forward hisses ferally. They fall silent, and behind Küren, a rectangle of light appears; a door has opened. The figures file out, murmuring, save for Küren and his benefactor. Once the others have all gone, the two of them step out, side by side, into a long corridor which is lit, if barely, by torches. At the end, stairs go up to daylight.
Küren (surprised): It’s over?
Benefactor (flatly): Idiotic ritual. Yes.
(The other man’s name is Cercivse Cebastianson. He, like Küren and the others from the octagonal room, are assassins. Whereas Küren has only just been officially decreed an assassin, his former mentor, Cercivse, has been since before Küren was born.)
Küren: It didn’t take long.
Cercivse: No. I made them shorten it. If I had my way it wouldn’t exist at all.
Küren: Why? It wasn’t difficult. It hardly took any time.
Cercivse: I told you. I made them shorten it. You got off easy.
Küren: What’s it usually…?
Cercivse: You don’t want to know.
(Küren shrugs. Chances are his mentor is right. Cercivse has initiated far more Whitecoat assassins-in-training to Freeblades already that he likely ever will. Cercivse is the highest class of assassin: Blackcloak. The only one higher than he and his fellow Blackcloaks is the Prime, Kerrintone Kaltonadau, ruler of the assassins and founder of their Code. She took control after the assassin’s Escape from Scarat, a desert planet some older assassins still consider their homeworld. All the assassins had been trapped there, with nothing to do but train their children to also be assassins, and so although their population had thrived, they had had nothing to hunt. The Escape had taken place before Küren’s birth, and few assassins are willing to speak of it, so his knowledge is limited.)
Küren: Master…
Cercivse: I’m not your master.
Küren: …Cercivse, then. As a Freeblade, will I be told the truth about the Escape?
Cercivse (softly): There is no truth about the Escape, Küren. It should never have even happened.
(Küren studies his old master out of the corner of his eye. His is a face Küren has become well-acquainted with over the past twenty years, seeing it every waking hour since his training began, but it has never lost its morbid fascination. Where most assassins pride their smooth faces and arms, holding them as proof to their skill, Cercivse’s are marked. Nor has he ever made it a secret that the scars are self-inflicted. When he was younger, Küren had gotten up the nerve to ask his master about them, and Cercivse had remorselessly explained their secrets in detail. Each cheekbone is marked with vertical, half-inch cuts; on the left, for silent kills, little blood, no screaming, no fight; on the right, fights he had avoided any injury in. Along his jawbone are small, jagged cuts he says mark the friends he has been forced to kill. And most dramatic, the long scar that encircles his right eye is a failed attempt at putting it out. Though still there, the eye is blind. Quietly, Cercivse had explained it as a reminder of his regret at teaching a friend of his the assassin’s way. When, predictably twelve-year-old bloodthirsty, Küren had asked him what it was like, the only thing his master had said was, “Cold.” None of these scars had made any sense to Küren; they all mark things that any assassin would have to do; yet his master had injured himself, even crippled himself to commemorate the events. Then again, no assassin would call Küren’s master—former master—perfectly sane. Metal gauntlets encase his forearms, and underneath are white cloths stained with Cercivse’s blood. The gauntlets are the other Blackcloaks’ attempts at keeping their suicidal peer from cutting his wrists again, but failing that, Cercivse tried to hang himself; there is a raw, red stripe underneath the soft black cloak around his neck from that. Still, when with Küren, Cercivse has always seemed crystal clear. Sometimes quiet, sometimes snappish, thoughtful…but never insane.)
Küren: I don’t know why you say that, mast— …Cercivse.
Cercivse: We were better off caged.
Küren: How better off? Nothing wants to be caged. We certainly didn’t deserve to be.
Cercivse: More than you’ll ever know…
Küren: What?
Cercivse: I said—forget it.
(He nods to a passing female Blackcloak.)
Blackcloak: …Mercy…
Cercivse: …Redemption… (He turns to Küren.) What title will you take, apprentice? (Laughs softly to himself.) Or should I say Küren?
Küren: I don’t know. I haven’t thought of it.
Cercivse: Haven’t thought of it. (Scornfully) Ha. I know better than that.
(As a Freeblade, an assassin free to hunt, Küren can no longer go by his name. Admittedly, outside the Code he would be untraceable. To any citizen-tracking system he does not exist. There is no record of birth or life, and he has no job license. Still, an actual name is considered too dangerous. Therefore he will take a title, “Blade of…” Cercivse’s is Blade of Mercy. Every Whitecoat dreams of the day they can take a title, and most have their heart set on something only for it to be taken before their time comes. This has happened to Küren several times, because his training lasted four years longer than the eighteen years it was supposed to. Not because he is inept, but because his master would not pass him until every tiny movement had been practiced—literally—ten million times.)
Küren (defensively): How can I top Blade of Mercy, master?
Cercivse (mock warningly): You better not top it. You’re only a Freeblade.
Assassin: Küren Ishhillson…
(Both Küren and Cercivse turn at Küren’s name; before now, Cercivse was held responsible for any out-of-line behavior on Küren’s part. Of course, that is no more, but like Küren not calling Cercivse ‘master’ and Cercivse not calling Küren ‘apprentice’, it will take time to stop reflexes.
Behind them stands the Prime, Blade of Shadows, Kerrintone Kaltonadau. Her black cloak had an edge of royal blue, but aside from that she looks the same as any Blackcloak. She is small and compact, and her face is weathered from the desert planet of Scarat. Küren begins to bow slightly, to show respect, but remembers that as a Freeblade he no longer has to. Instead he stops just before, leaving muscles tense and unsure. He is positive she knows what he was about to do, and feels even more foolish for it.)
Kerrintone: Congratulations, Küren. A Freeblade now, hm.
Küren (respectfully): Yes, Prime.
Kerrintone: You do know when you become a Blackcloak you will have to stay here as a Teacher until you’ve had one of your students become a Blackcloak?
Küren: I’m in no hurry, Prime. And five thousand kills to become a Blackcloak myself will take some time. But I’m anxious to pass on my experience.
(This, sadly, is sheer fabrication. Children begin training at between the ages of three and six, and Küren has no patience for small children. From her tone, Küren suspects the Prime knows that as well as every child who has ever come into contact with him.)
Kerrintone (dryly): I’m glad you realize that. Too many drag it out far too long. Too many get caught, and their skills are never passed on. (Softly) I hope you know we’re counting on you to pass down your master’s skills as well as whatever you learn on you own, Küren. He may never take another apprentice.
Küren (nods): I know.
(Too well. It had been nine circles of **** to convince Cercivse to take Küren as an apprentice in the first place. His five thousand kills were gained quickly, almost, some thought, as an excuse to return to the Code, but Küren is the only apprentice he has ever trained. But he had set his mind on Küren; when the Prime had tried to persuade him to take a child with more obvious potential, he had refused, and later attempted suicide again. Küren’s father Ishhill had been reluctant to give Küren up to the Blackcloak everyone thought more than a little mad, but he had, in the end, and not regretted it once before his death in 2825, five years ago.)
Kerrintone (nods back): I'll let you two go on, then.
(During this conversation, which after all has partly been about him, Cercivse has been politely looking elsewhere, feigning interest in the stones of the wall. Küren feels slightly disloyal to be talking about his former master as though he wasn’t there, but it isn’t as though he can ignore the Prime. He also knows Cercivse will not mention it after; he is well aware of the difficulty and confusion he has caused. Sometimes Küren wonders if he is proud of it.)
Kerrintone: You know the ship schedule, Freeblade Küren, but remember you must have a title before you leave the Code.
Küren: We were talking about that just before you spoke, actually. I've decided on…on Blade of Fury.
Kerrintone: Very well then. I'll record it in the archives. You can go whenever you please. Just remember (her eyes flash as she turns away) we’re counting on you.
(After she is some distance away, Küren and Cercivse begin towards the stairs again, not talking anymore. Climbing them ahead of Küren, Cercivse stops abruptly and turns to him.)
Cercivse: Your father’s, wasn’t it. Ishhill. Blade of Fury.
Küren: Yes. It seemed appropriate.
Cercivse: Hmmm…not very…
Küren (curious): Master—I mean, Cercivse. What was your father’s title? Did you take his?
Cercivse (flatly): No. He didn’t have one. He was before this. If he had it would have been…Blood. Blade of Blood.
(Küren shivers, inadvertently, at the total lack of emotion in his former master’s voice. A very young Whitecoat who had been standing at the top of the stairs catches, if not the words, the tone, and glances at Cercivse for a second, then dashes away. Küren smirks after the boy—this seems to be a normal reaction from Whitecoats towards Cercivse—but when he looks back at his old master, Cercivse has frozen, and is visibly shaking.)
Küren: Master—?
(Cercivse falls to his hands and knees suddenly, vomiting something black. Küren takes a step back, startled, but then jumps to Cercivse’s side.)
Küren: Master!
Cercivse (spits, gasping): Poison…poison…
(Out of nowhere four or five Blackcloaks appear and hoist Cercivse to his feet and away. Küren just stands and watches helplessly. Poison? Did he mean he had been poisoned?)
High Voice: Küren Ishhillson! Blade of Fury!
(Küren turns, startled all over again, to see a girl three or four years old—too young yet to have a white cloak—standing at the foot of the stairs beaming at him with sharp teeth and offensively yellow eyes: a Mek, a shapeshifter. He hates children. Shapeshifters most of all. Underage shapeshifting children who surprise him even more.)
Küren (scowling): What do you want, brat?
Mek Girl (pouting): They’re calling for you at the docks. Ship 273’s about to leave and the Prime herself told them to hold until you got there.
Küren: Oh, hells. She didn’t waste any time.
Mek Girl (gasps): I'll tell! That’s disrespectful of the Prime.
(Küren crouches down to the girl’s level.)
Küren (hissing): Go ahead. I'll cut out your tongue. (Lowers his voice even more.) And then I'll take out your eye so you look like the Blade of Mercy.
(She squeaks and runs away. Satisfied, Küren also runs—to the space docks, to Ship 273, wondering again if Cercivse meant he had been poisoned—if so, by who?—or if he was confused, having a ‘crazy moment.’ This has happened before, more often when Küren wasn’t with Cercivse. As if the assassin tried to control himself when his apprentice was nearby. Jumping onto Ship 273 and slamming the hatch behind him, Küren decides that his master likely had some sort of mental breakdown, and it caused a physical response—the vomiting—and the Blackcloaks with him likely know better what to do with him than Küren would. Cercivse had acted strangely when Küren mentioned his father, and the name he called him by…Blade of Blood…it sickens Küren to know that he might have had something to do with his master’s…former master’s…attack, but he forces himself to stop thinking about it.
He has a new life to begin.)
Final note, to anyone who cares: my penname is Sparky Lestat Todd, so that's why the byline has it instead of LPNailz. But neither one is my real name, if that isn't obvious.
Now: ...
KUREN
By: Sparky L. T.
PART 1
2830
NOVEMBER 23
Setting: A darkly lit, stone, octagonal room. In each corner there is a white pillar, and between each pillar stands a black-cloaked form. In the center of the room stands a lone, white-cloaked young man. His name is Küren Ishhillson. His head is bent, and he murmurs after those that surround him. One man steps forward to stand in front of Küren, but his face and form are still obscured by the shadows on the edges of the room and by his pitch-black cloak. He reaches out one hand to draw a finger across the round, silver clasp on Küren’s cloak, and at his touch it falls away. There is a whispering among the figures on the edges of the room, and the one who stepped forward hisses ferally. They fall silent, and behind Küren, a rectangle of light appears; a door has opened. The figures file out, murmuring, save for Küren and his benefactor. Once the others have all gone, the two of them step out, side by side, into a long corridor which is lit, if barely, by torches. At the end, stairs go up to daylight.
Küren (surprised): It’s over?
Benefactor (flatly): Idiotic ritual. Yes.
(The other man’s name is Cercivse Cebastianson. He, like Küren and the others from the octagonal room, are assassins. Whereas Küren has only just been officially decreed an assassin, his former mentor, Cercivse, has been since before Küren was born.)
Küren: It didn’t take long.
Cercivse: No. I made them shorten it. If I had my way it wouldn’t exist at all.
Küren: Why? It wasn’t difficult. It hardly took any time.
Cercivse: I told you. I made them shorten it. You got off easy.
Küren: What’s it usually…?
Cercivse: You don’t want to know.
(Küren shrugs. Chances are his mentor is right. Cercivse has initiated far more Whitecoat assassins-in-training to Freeblades already that he likely ever will. Cercivse is the highest class of assassin: Blackcloak. The only one higher than he and his fellow Blackcloaks is the Prime, Kerrintone Kaltonadau, ruler of the assassins and founder of their Code. She took control after the assassin’s Escape from Scarat, a desert planet some older assassins still consider their homeworld. All the assassins had been trapped there, with nothing to do but train their children to also be assassins, and so although their population had thrived, they had had nothing to hunt. The Escape had taken place before Küren’s birth, and few assassins are willing to speak of it, so his knowledge is limited.)
Küren: Master…
Cercivse: I’m not your master.
Küren: …Cercivse, then. As a Freeblade, will I be told the truth about the Escape?
Cercivse (softly): There is no truth about the Escape, Küren. It should never have even happened.
(Küren studies his old master out of the corner of his eye. His is a face Küren has become well-acquainted with over the past twenty years, seeing it every waking hour since his training began, but it has never lost its morbid fascination. Where most assassins pride their smooth faces and arms, holding them as proof to their skill, Cercivse’s are marked. Nor has he ever made it a secret that the scars are self-inflicted. When he was younger, Küren had gotten up the nerve to ask his master about them, and Cercivse had remorselessly explained their secrets in detail. Each cheekbone is marked with vertical, half-inch cuts; on the left, for silent kills, little blood, no screaming, no fight; on the right, fights he had avoided any injury in. Along his jawbone are small, jagged cuts he says mark the friends he has been forced to kill. And most dramatic, the long scar that encircles his right eye is a failed attempt at putting it out. Though still there, the eye is blind. Quietly, Cercivse had explained it as a reminder of his regret at teaching a friend of his the assassin’s way. When, predictably twelve-year-old bloodthirsty, Küren had asked him what it was like, the only thing his master had said was, “Cold.” None of these scars had made any sense to Küren; they all mark things that any assassin would have to do; yet his master had injured himself, even crippled himself to commemorate the events. Then again, no assassin would call Küren’s master—former master—perfectly sane. Metal gauntlets encase his forearms, and underneath are white cloths stained with Cercivse’s blood. The gauntlets are the other Blackcloaks’ attempts at keeping their suicidal peer from cutting his wrists again, but failing that, Cercivse tried to hang himself; there is a raw, red stripe underneath the soft black cloak around his neck from that. Still, when with Küren, Cercivse has always seemed crystal clear. Sometimes quiet, sometimes snappish, thoughtful…but never insane.)
Küren: I don’t know why you say that, mast— …Cercivse.
Cercivse: We were better off caged.
Küren: How better off? Nothing wants to be caged. We certainly didn’t deserve to be.
Cercivse: More than you’ll ever know…
Küren: What?
Cercivse: I said—forget it.
(He nods to a passing female Blackcloak.)
Blackcloak: …Mercy…
Cercivse: …Redemption… (He turns to Küren.) What title will you take, apprentice? (Laughs softly to himself.) Or should I say Küren?
Küren: I don’t know. I haven’t thought of it.
Cercivse: Haven’t thought of it. (Scornfully) Ha. I know better than that.
(As a Freeblade, an assassin free to hunt, Küren can no longer go by his name. Admittedly, outside the Code he would be untraceable. To any citizen-tracking system he does not exist. There is no record of birth or life, and he has no job license. Still, an actual name is considered too dangerous. Therefore he will take a title, “Blade of…” Cercivse’s is Blade of Mercy. Every Whitecoat dreams of the day they can take a title, and most have their heart set on something only for it to be taken before their time comes. This has happened to Küren several times, because his training lasted four years longer than the eighteen years it was supposed to. Not because he is inept, but because his master would not pass him until every tiny movement had been practiced—literally—ten million times.)
Küren (defensively): How can I top Blade of Mercy, master?
Cercivse (mock warningly): You better not top it. You’re only a Freeblade.
Assassin: Küren Ishhillson…
(Both Küren and Cercivse turn at Küren’s name; before now, Cercivse was held responsible for any out-of-line behavior on Küren’s part. Of course, that is no more, but like Küren not calling Cercivse ‘master’ and Cercivse not calling Küren ‘apprentice’, it will take time to stop reflexes.
Behind them stands the Prime, Blade of Shadows, Kerrintone Kaltonadau. Her black cloak had an edge of royal blue, but aside from that she looks the same as any Blackcloak. She is small and compact, and her face is weathered from the desert planet of Scarat. Küren begins to bow slightly, to show respect, but remembers that as a Freeblade he no longer has to. Instead he stops just before, leaving muscles tense and unsure. He is positive she knows what he was about to do, and feels even more foolish for it.)
Kerrintone: Congratulations, Küren. A Freeblade now, hm.
Küren (respectfully): Yes, Prime.
Kerrintone: You do know when you become a Blackcloak you will have to stay here as a Teacher until you’ve had one of your students become a Blackcloak?
Küren: I’m in no hurry, Prime. And five thousand kills to become a Blackcloak myself will take some time. But I’m anxious to pass on my experience.
(This, sadly, is sheer fabrication. Children begin training at between the ages of three and six, and Küren has no patience for small children. From her tone, Küren suspects the Prime knows that as well as every child who has ever come into contact with him.)
Kerrintone (dryly): I’m glad you realize that. Too many drag it out far too long. Too many get caught, and their skills are never passed on. (Softly) I hope you know we’re counting on you to pass down your master’s skills as well as whatever you learn on you own, Küren. He may never take another apprentice.
Küren (nods): I know.
(Too well. It had been nine circles of **** to convince Cercivse to take Küren as an apprentice in the first place. His five thousand kills were gained quickly, almost, some thought, as an excuse to return to the Code, but Küren is the only apprentice he has ever trained. But he had set his mind on Küren; when the Prime had tried to persuade him to take a child with more obvious potential, he had refused, and later attempted suicide again. Küren’s father Ishhill had been reluctant to give Küren up to the Blackcloak everyone thought more than a little mad, but he had, in the end, and not regretted it once before his death in 2825, five years ago.)
Kerrintone (nods back): I'll let you two go on, then.
(During this conversation, which after all has partly been about him, Cercivse has been politely looking elsewhere, feigning interest in the stones of the wall. Küren feels slightly disloyal to be talking about his former master as though he wasn’t there, but it isn’t as though he can ignore the Prime. He also knows Cercivse will not mention it after; he is well aware of the difficulty and confusion he has caused. Sometimes Küren wonders if he is proud of it.)
Kerrintone: You know the ship schedule, Freeblade Küren, but remember you must have a title before you leave the Code.
Küren: We were talking about that just before you spoke, actually. I've decided on…on Blade of Fury.
Kerrintone: Very well then. I'll record it in the archives. You can go whenever you please. Just remember (her eyes flash as she turns away) we’re counting on you.
(After she is some distance away, Küren and Cercivse begin towards the stairs again, not talking anymore. Climbing them ahead of Küren, Cercivse stops abruptly and turns to him.)
Cercivse: Your father’s, wasn’t it. Ishhill. Blade of Fury.
Küren: Yes. It seemed appropriate.
Cercivse: Hmmm…not very…
Küren (curious): Master—I mean, Cercivse. What was your father’s title? Did you take his?
Cercivse (flatly): No. He didn’t have one. He was before this. If he had it would have been…Blood. Blade of Blood.
(Küren shivers, inadvertently, at the total lack of emotion in his former master’s voice. A very young Whitecoat who had been standing at the top of the stairs catches, if not the words, the tone, and glances at Cercivse for a second, then dashes away. Küren smirks after the boy—this seems to be a normal reaction from Whitecoats towards Cercivse—but when he looks back at his old master, Cercivse has frozen, and is visibly shaking.)
Küren: Master—?
(Cercivse falls to his hands and knees suddenly, vomiting something black. Küren takes a step back, startled, but then jumps to Cercivse’s side.)
Küren: Master!
Cercivse (spits, gasping): Poison…poison…
(Out of nowhere four or five Blackcloaks appear and hoist Cercivse to his feet and away. Küren just stands and watches helplessly. Poison? Did he mean he had been poisoned?)
High Voice: Küren Ishhillson! Blade of Fury!
(Küren turns, startled all over again, to see a girl three or four years old—too young yet to have a white cloak—standing at the foot of the stairs beaming at him with sharp teeth and offensively yellow eyes: a Mek, a shapeshifter. He hates children. Shapeshifters most of all. Underage shapeshifting children who surprise him even more.)
Küren (scowling): What do you want, brat?
Mek Girl (pouting): They’re calling for you at the docks. Ship 273’s about to leave and the Prime herself told them to hold until you got there.
Küren: Oh, hells. She didn’t waste any time.
Mek Girl (gasps): I'll tell! That’s disrespectful of the Prime.
(Küren crouches down to the girl’s level.)
Küren (hissing): Go ahead. I'll cut out your tongue. (Lowers his voice even more.) And then I'll take out your eye so you look like the Blade of Mercy.
(She squeaks and runs away. Satisfied, Küren also runs—to the space docks, to Ship 273, wondering again if Cercivse meant he had been poisoned—if so, by who?—or if he was confused, having a ‘crazy moment.’ This has happened before, more often when Küren wasn’t with Cercivse. As if the assassin tried to control himself when his apprentice was nearby. Jumping onto Ship 273 and slamming the hatch behind him, Küren decides that his master likely had some sort of mental breakdown, and it caused a physical response—the vomiting—and the Blackcloaks with him likely know better what to do with him than Küren would. Cercivse had acted strangely when Küren mentioned his father, and the name he called him by…Blade of Blood…it sickens Küren to know that he might have had something to do with his master’s…former master’s…attack, but he forces himself to stop thinking about it.
He has a new life to begin.)
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). I do have a hard time with new and unusual names and that does slow the pace a fraction until I get familiar with them (again futuristic tales are not my forte, but it's woth investigating) but I really appreciate the somewhat espionage-esque plot. Well, assassins anyhoo. Always thrilling, to align ones self to and find empathy for the 'bad guy,' (well what society deems as bad anyway). The thing that stays with me that stands out the most for some reason is the exchange Küren has with the boy in the slums I think it was. It's the innocence of youth versus the stoicism of maturity, or burden as the case may be. I liked it. Worked on a subliminal level, maybe intended, maybe not, maybe I read more into things than I should and look for mening where there might not be any. But anyway, that's just a quick response.