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
"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."
no subject
"My name's Moonstar." After a second's hesitation she asks, "Are you an imPort?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
Dani takes a breath as she listens to the other sounds in the park, kids playing in some playground, birds, the hum of cars passing by.
"Ever tell the same story twice?"
no subject
"Oh," he says. "Oh. No, I don't-- I don't fight criminals or anything like that. Not all of us fight criminals. Some of us are civilians, like me, who were brought here for this reason or that reason, whatever those reasons might be." At her question, he looks puzzled. "Of course I've told the same story twice."
no subject
She tilts her head, curious at his answer. The message from the 'Porter seemed to make it clear that there wasn't much choice for the imPort. But Dani hadn't thought to be anything but what she was so she wondered if imPort civilians were more accepting of the Porter. It seemed to be so. She nodded at his answer.
"So what do you think the reasons are for your being in this City?"