but you're caught in your own glory

[goryteller]

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.

Comments

I AM SO SORRY

[pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com]

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.

AAAH

[goryteller]

Although Katurian's first (and only) conversation with Riful was conducted through voice, she left enough of an impression that he waited for her to appear on video, too, and so he has an idea of what she looks like. He isn't looking for her now, though - he's telling a story. He puts his thoughts into words, into beautiful scenery, into shaping voices and trees and shadows, and loses track of most everything else. The story he tells this time is The Tale of the Starving Village, a story about little girl who sacrifices her own comfort to help others but is inevitably maimed by a wolf her parents won't let her help. Though a bystander hears her in danger, they disregard it, and the little girl quietly bleeds to death. Alone.

When he's finished, the crowd thins out more than he'd like but about as much as he'd expect, and although many people clap hesitantly (and some don't clap at all), he can tell that some people genuinely enjoyed it. And then he notices Riful.

Oh.

[pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com]

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?"

[goryteller]

Even though he's been a city native for the last five months (and will be for the rest of his life), Katurian is still unable to swallow the disconnect between what Riful looks like and what she's supposedly done. Maybe he should deflect the questions. Maybe he should run. Maybe he should call the police right now - he's sure they'd answer if he sent something through the communicator - but he doesn't. He can't. Somehow.

She doesn't seem to remember him, at least.

"I did write it myself." He steps down off the crate - he's never very good at keeping himself in a position of power, figurative or otherwise. "I write all of them myself, the stories. I've got quite a few of them, by now." He shifts his weight. "I'm very glad that you liked it."

[pullingyourlegs.livejournal.com]

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."

[littleprovolone.livejournal.com]

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.

[goryteller]

When Mary starts listening, he's telling The Boy on the Lake, a story about a boy who is taken in by his demanding aunt and uncle after his parents are struck by lightning. Frustrated by how he rows into the lake to mourn his parents instead of running the farm, the aunt and uncle trick the boy by pretending to be Death and promising to bring him to his parents. They lure him into dangerous rapids where he drowns, though they mean only to frighten him.

Katurian no longer needs to read the story from a page (he has most of them memorized by now), and so he can make long, sweeping gestures as the boy rows through the lake, and he can cover his eyes with his hands for the blindfolded man his aunt and uncle use as a disguise. When he's done, his throat is sore, but he's satisfied. He calls a break, and takes a swing of the canteen he brought with him.

[littleprovolone.livejournal.com]

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.

[goryteller]

Someone knows him by name. His usual reaction to this is to panic - since Detective Tupolski spent so much time in this world, Katurian's never sure how much people know about him - but with this girl, that's impossible. She's crying. And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can recognize her voice.

"Mary?" he asks. If she's crying because of his story, that's a good thing (it's nice having such power over others' emotions), but he doesn't want to be insensitive, and she could be crying for other reasons, too. He keeps his voice soft. Sympathetic.

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

[godspowerranger.livejournal.com]

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.

[goryteller]

She catches him at the tale end of one story (a man is shot for an unknown, but unspeakable crime - it's funny that this story is one he can still tell), and then he segues into The Face Basement with the same, almost cheerful enthusiasm in which he told it the last time, in which he tells nearly all of his stories. It's a game for him, bringing the audience to his level, and he feels that yes, yes his good mood is paying off. This is why it's worth it.

Then it's time for a break, and he sighs, satisfied, and hops off the crate. Sometimes people talk to him during the breaks, and sometimes they don't. He likes to think it doesn't matter to him, whether they praise him or not, but every time is a gift.

[godspowerranger.livejournal.com]

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."

[goryteller]

Interesting. It's a word he doesn't always know how to deal with. He's heard it used so often as a mild insult, as a way to put down his stories without putting them down officially, to fill the awkward silence between the final line and someone's need to politely disentangle themselves from his presence. The smile, though, and the thank you, tell him otherwise, and so he beams at her, at first surprised by his own enthusiasm, and then accepting.

He doesn't recognize her. Not yet.

"Well!" he says. "Thank you for listening. It's my first time doing this outside with all of these people, but it really is nice, and people like you coming to listen, all that, makes it even nicer. It means very little without an audience."

YOU KNOW THIS WAS COMING.

[simplyteasing.livejournal.com]

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.

OH BOY

[goryteller]

He doesn't recognize the voice immediately, not until the 'boy', and even then, he doesn't react with his usual, bitter frustration. Instead, he grins and makes a small sound not unlike a laugh. It's his usual reaction, whenever he feels intimidated but isn't quite sure why.

"It's all I do." It's almost true. He extends his arms to balance himself, and steps down off the crate. "Never outside before, though, not like this. You're, um--" He hesitates. "I know you from the Network. Don't I?"

eeeeee.

[simplyteasing.livejournal.com]

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."

[goryteller]

"I remember you." He echoes the slight bow, not a little uncertainly. "Katurian."

He manages a smile. He doesn't think he likes Tyki, all of their conversations considered. He tends to have an almost gut inclination for forgiveness, however, no matter how much he tries to maintain a grudge. He forgave the detectives for torturing him. He forgave his brother for killing those children, for betraying his trust. The only exclusion to the rule is his parents. He can't find any rationale behind their actions that he doesn't hate.

Tyki is mildly unpleasant. That's all. Katurian can treat him like a friendly acquaintance, if he needs to.

"How long have you been listening?" he asks. He glances around, as though looking at the space where the crowd once stood would remind him of Tyki's place within it, although of course, he didn't notice then and won't know now.

[spiritgun]

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.

[goryteller]

At twenty-four years, Katurian wasn't much of a kid anymore - he was, however, small in stature, and spoke with an almost boyish enthusiasm that stood in stark contrast to the subject matter of the stories he was reciting. They were new fairytales, yes. They were also gruesome and bloody and unforgiving, with the protagonists inevitably suffering forever or dying alone, with happy endings that are just in sight but never, ever happen.

A man who had asked to never grow hungry again was tricked into eating himself alive. A queen forced her servants to carry water up a mountain, and they all died of thirst before reaching the top. A little girl accidentally set fire to the house of the boy she had a crush on, and burned up in the embers.

[spiritgun]

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?"

[goryteller]

Katurian wrinkled his brow, frowning. In the course of the day, there had been people who liked his stories, certainly, but still others regarded him with speculation, distrust, disgust. This was usual. Expected. He still didn't like it. He didn't understand it so much either - was there really anything so awful about a fictional person dying a fictional (horrific, gruesome, gory, gratuitous-- okay) death?

"How do you mean, 'wrong crowd?' I don't force anyone to listen," he said. He did his best to sound calm and rational instead of defensive, and nearly succeeded. "They can leave, if they'd like."

[iownkickassguns.livejournal.com]

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?"

[goryteller]

He looks down, surprised to hear a voice, and grins just slightly. This late in the morning, he's been reciting for three hours and feels a sort of sore, tired satisfaction in his back and his throat.

"Until I can't," he says. It's a perfect, but cryptic answer, and he shakes his head, smiling. "Until dark, maybe. Probably. I have work tomorrow."

[iownkickassguns.livejournal.com]

"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?"

[goryteller]

The question surprises him - is he that obvious? He worries, sometimes, how the native population might see him if they knew he isn't an ordinary man, if they knew he can see into their pasts and lives and fundamentally rock the foundations of the universe in less time than it takes them to blink.

"I, um." He runs a hand through the back of his hair. "Yes, I am. The stories are stories. They're my stories. I tell them for fun." He hesitates. "Why do you ask?"