Katurian Katurian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goryteller) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2010-03-19 08:25 pm
goryteller) wrote in 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.
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.
no subject
"So your old world is like being stuck learning arithmetic.?"
no subject
She considers the demon invasion, and the breaking of the seals. She considers Lilith's plot to raise Lucifer and destroy humankind. She considers the petty squabbles of her own siblings, and their absent Father.
She considers all of this then thinks, well, it's such a nice day, so all she replies is:
"Metaphorically speaking? It's a bit like that, yeah."
And because she has no real wish to elaborate on that, she quickly follows it up with: "Oh, I never thanked you for your help yesterday."
asfguasf my typos
"I can't imagine you needed my help all that much. I mean, you seemed to already have a good idea of everything before I got there." He grins, not a little sheepishly. "Not that anyone can have a very good idea of this place, you know?"
Psssh
She tilts her head back, taking in birds and trees and sky.
"It's not bad, though, so far."
no subject
Then he remembers all of the murders. The usual dead bodies making an appearance on his communicator screen. The threats. The screams. In the beautiful, spring weather, Katurian's smile fades, but what else is he to expect from a human (or mostly human) civilization? There are always bad people. Who want violence. Who want death. And he sees them here all the time.
"It's good enough," he says, less certain, and then: "Like being suspended, right?" He cracks a smile.
no subject
A shrug. For now, as far as she's concerned, it's better than Heaven. Tomorrow zombies will rise and people will start dying and she'll chide herself for being so selfish, but today she's having a nice time.
"Anyway. I did kind of freak out at you yesterday, and you managed not to freak out right back at me, in spite of me being some… stranger with B&E habits. So regardless of whatever modesty or excuse you might try to pull, I do appreciate it."
no subject
no subject
A beat as she thinks over what she's just said. "Ahh, heh. Wow. This is a weird conversation."