goryteller: (Default)
Katurian Katurian ([personal profile] goryteller) wrote in [community profile] capeandcowllogs2010-03-19 08:25 pm

but you're caught in your own glory

WHO: Katurian and You! (Open)
WHERE: Central Park
WHEN: Backdated to March 14th, all day.
WARNING: Likely descriptions of morbid fiction!
SUMMARY: Katurian tells his stories in the park.
FORMAT: Starting as paragraph, but feel free to tag as you'd like!

Today, Katurian wants to make something of himself. He wants to step outside and suck in the fresh air. He wants the breeze in his hair. He wants people to look him in the eye, to smile at him, to remember his name. He wants to tell stories.

You're manic, he tells himself. He doesn't know much about psychology, but he isn't sure what else it could be, given the week he's had. The bruise he received after wiping Margaret Marks out of existence is a healing, but sickly yellow, and the concussion that came with it hangs between his temples as a dull, but ever present headache. His dreams are fragmented. Awful. He looks in the mirror and isn't sure who he sees anymore. He's a mess inside and out, but today, there's a distant tinge to it, a why does it matter? A vague acceptance.

Acceptance? Of inevitable punishment? Of Death's promised protection? Of the man (ghost?) he's becoming?

Or maybe he wants to enjoy what he has while he still has it. Katurian doesn't know much about himself these days, but the one thing that's constant and will always be constant are his stories. With them, he stays afloat.

At eight in the morning, he brings a crate to Central Park, stands on top of it, and starts telling fairy tales. He tells the ones he's already told the Network, and the ones he hasn't. He tells stories from home, too, although there are some he can't tell, some that left a sickening taste in his mouth when he practiced them in front of the mirror beforehand. The Pillowman was one of them, but that isn't surprising. He knows he doesn't want to use that one anyway.

I AM SO SORRY

[identity profile] pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 12:45 am (UTC)(link)
There is a small, smiling little girl settled on the outskirts of whatever crowd the man's managed to draw to himself, and for the first time in months the insubstantial shift of a dress she's wearing appears almost plausible for the weather. She is wearing shoes, at this point, although she would rather be barefoot, since the ground is still half-sodden and tracking mud would just be rude of her! If she recognizes the narrator's voice as that of the boy who showed so little respect a month or so ago, when she was barely able to stand on even the firmest surface, she certainly isn't letting it show in her expression; the wide, interested eyes and the upturned corners of her mouth look absolutely genuine.

To be fair, that doesn't rule out any intent of ripping him limb from limb, but let's pretend for a while. Riful stands, one arm crossed over her stomach and the other cupping her chin, and listens to the story.

[identity profile] pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 02:22 am (UTC)(link)
Riful's already applauded adequately, at least in her own personal estimation. She claps her hands together once more, claps them, and grins, taking a few steps forward--quickly but not with haste. Her movements are still a little girl's, as opposed to a predator's, but she may be cornering him nonetheless, and after a few more she is standing in front of him.

"Hello," she says, hands still knit together. "That was a very interesting story."

She has to tilt her chin up to speak to him face-to-face (especially given the crate); it would be irritating if the power balanced wasn't set so staggeringly against him. Truth be told, Riful actually has no idea who the man is, but the vague sense of familiarity--and the soft glow of capability that always identifies imPorts--are more than enough to make him worth further observation.

"Did you write it yourself?"

[identity profile] pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com 2010-03-21 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)
She pauses and tilts her head, seemingly pondering something, with a slight smile on her face. There is something familiar about him, but while she was in prison she spent so much time listening to the network that it's only natural she might have heard his voice--if he is actually a hero, of course. He certainly feels like one, but his demeanor leaves a lot to be desired!

"It was a very sad thing that happened to that girl at the end," she adds, not sounding particularly upset (but perhaps less happy than she could be), "but every animal does need to eat."

[identity profile] littleprovolone.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 01:11 am (UTC)(link)
It's such a nice day out that Mary had decided to take a break from her studying and enjoy the sunshine. As she walks around, she notices a crowd gathering not terribly far away. When she walks nearer, she immediately recognizes the voice of Mr. Katurian. Never one to walk away without saying hello, she worms her way through the crowd and gets in a bit closer.

Oh. He's telling his stories. The ugly, scary ones. But he tells them so well that she stays and listens. Besides, it's very interesting to watch the faces of the listeners. He gets all sorts of reactions, but even so, everyone's definitely paying attention.

[identity profile] littleprovolone.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 02:08 am (UTC)(link)
She had stopped watching the crowd and had instead turned her full attention to the story. She's entranced, trapped, and absolutely hooked. When he finishes his tale, it takes her a moment to return to her surroundings. Her cheeks are damp. Oh, oh, gosh, she's crying.

Well, that's okay. Everyone needs a cry once in a while. Before he begins his next story, she goes up to chat with him. No one else in the crowd seems to want to do that.

"Hello, Mr. Katurian," she says. Her voice is soft, but she's pleased that it's not shaky.

Psh timeframes *handwaves*. Also I apologize in advance for the tl;dr

[identity profile] godspowerranger.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 01:54 am (UTC)(link)
Anna slept yesterday.

That in itself is significant; angels don't need sleep, and Anna hadn't had the freedom to let her guard down in that way since regaining her Grace. But last night it became a necessity, so she found a bed and lay down and dreamed, even if those dreams escaped her when the sun rose.

This morning, the whole world is like a dream, one she's wandered into unwittingly. Bits and pieces of her different lives have been thrown together with no regard for the proper order of things, and it's a bit like being back in Connor Beverley only no one's attempted to feed her pills yet. She's getting used to it. She kind of likes it.

The freedom here—from being hunted, being ordered around—is almost too much. Not surprising, then, that she falls so easily back into her old routine: go out, see the world, watch. Witness.

In the park she observes everything and everyone with almost equal fascination, but stops when she comes to this man on his little box. His stories capture her attention, but his voice—his voice is familiar.

[identity profile] godspowerranger.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 03:11 am (UTC)(link)
She presses her tongue against the back of her teeth as he recites, afraid to make a sound and interrupt. The story is captivating. Though there are those in the crowd who seem unhappy with the subject matter, Anna doesn't mind—she read Aesop's originals as they were written, after all, and those of the brothers Grimm, and she doesn't care much about whitewashing one way or another.

(If anything worries her, it's his tone.)

She wanders up as he steps down, her long black coat brushing the backs of her knees. "Hi," she says, and pairs it with a smile. "That was an interesting story, thank you for that."

Psssh

[identity profile] godspowerranger.livejournal.com - 2010-03-21 16:35 (UTC) - Expand

YOU KNOW THIS WAS COMING.

[identity profile] simplyteasing.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 02:13 am (UTC)(link)
For the first hour or so, Tyki did nothing more than watch. The boy -- the voice behind Katurian, he was sure -- was a rather adequate storyteller, weaving plot and metaphor as though they were weapons he was all too versed, too experienced in using. It was rather -- quaint, was the first word that came to mind, but to leave it labeled as such did the boy an injustice. Not only were his stories vivid, they left Tyki hanging there, victimized and scarred by an almost intrinsic sense of...loss? As if he were hearing something he could only touch and admire in the most nebulous of ways, its true purpose secret, locked away in the dark for only one other to see.

In the back of Tyki's mind, Joyd licked its lips, its all-too pointed teeth glinting in the dark. Part of Tyki -- separate from Joyd, from this moment, here and now -- severely wanted to harm the storytelling boy solely for hiding something from him, for being duplicitous when he had been nothing but honest. It felt like a kind of betrayal, something not quite punishable by death, but certainly nearly as personal, as hurtful.

// Kill him //

Tyki licked his lips soon after Katurian finished his latest tale, enjoying the way that the storytelling boy's pulse would jump, the way his neck would tighten or go slack depending on the plot of whatever tale he spun next. A cigarette appeared in his hand only moments after, already lit and inhaled by the time he approached the box and stated:

"Ah, so this is what you do in your free time, story-telling boy."

His smile was as amicable as it could get.

eeeeee.

[identity profile] simplyteasing.livejournal.com 2010-03-20 01:51 pm (UTC)(link)
He bows, slightly. Nothing more than an inclination of the head, really. "Tyki Mikk," he says, introducing himself with about as much flourish as he always did. "We've spoken before."
spiritgun: (Default)

[personal profile] spiritgun 2010-03-20 03:36 pm (UTC)(link)
After hearing from Tyki that he could his brand of cigarettes in Manhattan, Yusuke undertook an expedition to procure a few packs. Which meant asking a middle-aged man on the sidewalk to please go in there and buy him several packs. Yusuke missed home, and missed vending machines that didn't care about such things as age or identification. After quite a few tries, a kind-hearted man took pity on him and bought the packs for him. Yusuke resolved to take Kurama or Kuwabara next time and make them go in buy for him. Less of a hassle.

He walked through Central Park on the way back, hands crammed in his jacket pockets. There was a kid standing on a crate telling stories, and Yusuke stopped to listen out of curiosity. They sounded like fairy tales, none that Yusuke'd ever heard, but interesting, and he hung back a bit to listen.
spiritgun: (Default)

[personal profile] spiritgun 2010-03-21 05:39 am (UTC)(link)
Yusuke listened quietly for a while, expression caught somewhere between disapproval and shock. He'd heard a lot of fairy tales, but these didn't seem to follow the usual mold. Eventually, he made his way over, looking up at Katurian speculatively.

"I think you're pitching those stories to the wrong crowd." He said slowly. "Not really stories made for kids, are they?"

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[personal profile] spiritgun - 2010-03-22 02:09 (UTC) - Expand

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[personal profile] spiritgun - 2010-03-22 19:58 (UTC) - Expand

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[personal profile] spiritgun - 2010-03-23 20:56 (UTC) - Expand

[identity profile] iownkickassguns.livejournal.com 2010-03-21 06:26 am (UTC)(link)
After taking a late morning run in the park, Dani slows down some to walk and cool down when she sees a more open area. While the kids playing and the people just enjoying the park on the day is nothing out of the ordinary, Dani is drawn to the man standing on a box. She raises an eyebrow. Of course you couldn't leave out the usual out-of-touch person who wanted to preach from a soapbox.

She walks by just to hear what he says since a number of people are listening. What surprises her is the story. And its content. At the end of one story, Dani asks, "How long are you planning on doing this?"

[identity profile] iownkickassguns.livejournal.com 2010-03-22 05:12 am (UTC)(link)
"Why the stories?" Dani asks. It doesn't seem like he's out for entertainment, well not just entertainment. She wonders about the "moral" of these stories. If there is any.

"My name's Moonstar." After a second's hesitation she asks, "Are you an imPort?"