Katurian Katurian (
goryteller) wrote in
capeandcowllogs2010-03-19 08:25 pm
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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.
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
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
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.
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"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?"
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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Btw I showed a rl friend of mine your convenient journal of stories. She didn't know how to react
TELL HER TO BLAME MARTIN MCDONAGH /o\
I blame you for everything. But since I loved them... WHAT ELSE MATTERS
Psh timeframes *handwaves*. Also I apologize in advance for the tl;dr
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.
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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.
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(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."
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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."
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asfguasf my typos
Psssh
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YOU KNOW THIS WAS COMING.
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
"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.
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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.
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durr edits
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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.
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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.
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"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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"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."
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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?"
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"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."
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"My name's Moonstar." After a second's hesitation she asks, "Are you an imPort?"
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"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?"
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