|Scene Title||WTF Is Up With That Guy?|
|Synopsis||Durandal sits in the park with his pigeons, then gets caught in the middle of a pissing match between Scrivner and Nestor.|
The famed Central Park, an area that at times, has come to be known as the oasis of NYC. One of the great pleasures New Yorkers and tourists enjoy is getting away from it all inside Central Park. Stretching 51 blocks between 59th and 110th streets, this 843 acre, green rectangle has served its city well since 1859. From famous statues to castles, there is so much to see within this pastoral landmark. One of the more famous stops is The Dairy, built in 1870 as a milk bar, it now serves as the main Visitor Center. There is also the posh Tavern on the Green restaurant nearby. On the more romantic side of the park, Hansom Cabs can be found lined up across from the Plaza Hotel at 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, offering a romantic journey through the park. To the north lies a large, fenced-in body of water. with walking and jogging trails offered along the perimeter path.
Durandal sits by himself…sorta.
There are no other people near Duran, who sits on a bench with a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a tableknife. One theory as to /why/ there are no other people might by that he is surrounded by a veritable flock of pidgeons. 6 or 8 of them at any given time, some fly away, some arrive. Durandal makes himself a sandwhich in his lap, and while he chows down, he breaks a slice into peices and tosses them out randomly among his loyal followers.
Pigeons. Lots of pigeons. So many, many pigeons. For a man out for a jog, they're rather in the way. At a distance, Rufus Scrivner narrows his eyes at the flock of feathered rats and glances around for an alternate route. In the end, as he approaches, he manages to do this odd sort of half-dance, half-hop over a couple of them while veering off to one side to give them a wide berth. He slows as well, because there's something… vaguely… familiar… about that man on the bench, eating peanut butter sammiches.
Nestor is practicing his swordsmanship nearby. He is dressed in comfortable workout clothes, noticably different from normal workout gear by the heavy leather boots on his feet. His sword is a Japanese Katana, similar to those that can be found at any suvenieur shop in the city. He cuts, parries, thrusts, and generally does sword-y stuff, concentrating on what he's doing. Against a nearby tree lies his sport's bag, the sheath for the katana leaning against it.
Durandal spots Scrivner approaching and dodging around pidgeons. He swallows a mouthful of peanut butter sandwhich and then does something stranger still. He coos. A trilling, fluttering noise that sounds a lot like pidgeon speak… and damned if some of the pidgeons don't move out of Scrivner's way. A few of them ignore the sounds, and just keep on pecking. "Sorry." Duran offers, in English this time.
Strange indeed. Rufus' eyes narrow to slits for a second as his brow furrows and his mouth purses in bewilderment. How did…. It's the man's actual voice that has recognition click in place. His steps slow further, and walking, he tilts his head. "Not a problem," he says. "Did you just…" He lets the words trail off, then asks, "How did you do that? They looked as if they listened to you."
Durandal grins easily and chuckles, shaking his head. He doesn't recognize Scrivner. He shoves his hand into the plastic bag, and pulls out a slice of bread, holding it up to show Scrivner. "Greedy carrion will listen to anyone with food." He holds the slice out to Scrivner. "Here… you try."
Nestor notices the two men talking, and that the pidgeons obey Durandal. Blinking a little, as he also recognizes Durandal, he moves a little closer, that he might be able to listen in.
Reaching down, taking that slice of bread, Scrivner arches an eyebrow and gives it a rather dubious look. "Erm….. Very well," he says, as he tears it up into small chunks. Those chunks then get tossed haphazardly to the pavement, and with one, the man hesitates, aims, and idly tosses one at a pigeon's head. Bonk! He smirks for a second, then glances up at Durandal. "The name's Scrivner. You're … rather famiiar. Are you the bloke who told me off in the petrol station awhile ago?" Pale blue eyes flicker towards Nestor, and his gaze lingers awhile on that sword. His hands freeze in mid-toss at another pigeon's head.
Durandal quirks his eyebrow. "What's a petrol station?" He sounds genuinely confused, but his eyes scan the man, hoping for recognition. Another peice of bread gets tossed, then Duran nods to the jar of peanut butter. "Want a sandwhich?"
"Ahh…. No. No, thanks," Scrivner mutters. He glances over at Nestor again, arching his eyebrows, before he shakes his head a few times. "Petrol… Ah, sorry. Gas station." He pulls a weak smile, and he says, "Sorry, I must have confused you with someone else."
Durandal thinks for a few moments, then his eyes go wide. He snaps his fingers. "The guy with the chopper… you and the redhead were out drag racing?" He shakes his head and chuckles. "Didn't mean it to come off that way, was just making a joke about the noise. He takes another bite and chews for a bit. "Sorry if I was rude… just wanted to keep you clear of the NYPD down at the docks. Pretty heavy enforcement down there these days.
Nestor finishes up his kata, then returns to the tree, putting the sword away, and grabbing out a towel to mop up his brow. Then, he slings the bag over his shoulder and heads over towards the other two. When he gets about ten feet away, he stops, nodding at Durandal, and smiling. "I saw you eyeing my sword. Do you like it?" He says this to Scrivner, aimiably.
"No, it's quite all right. No offence was taken or the like," Scrivner says easily enough, somewhat pleased with himself that his memory did not fail him. He goes quiet for a second or two, staring at Nestor, juuuuust a touch more warily than before. When he speaks, though, he's no less civil in tone. "It …. is all right, I suppose, yes. Difficult to judge the quality from a distance." Then he glances rather swiftly at Durandal, arching an eyebrow.
Durandal looks up to regard Nestor, giving the man a quick wave before shoving the rest of the sandwhich into his mouth and and beginning to chew.
Nestor grins. "It should be good quality. I payed enough for it." He notes the warriness, but doesn't say anything about it.
Scrivner stares at Nestor for another second or two, and tearing the last hunk of bread into little crumbs, he tosses them down to the ground and only manages to clip a pigeon on the tail this time around. "How… lovely for you," he says, somewhat awkwardly, smile fixed tightly in place. "Are you some sort of performer?"
Nestor shrugs, smirking slightly. "Some kind, yes. I do various kinds of performances. Juggling, mostly, as well as weapons demonstrations. I also work as a manikin at (the bigass toystore in the city)."
Nestor shrugs, smirking slightly. "Some kind, yes. I do various kinds of performances. Juggling, mostly, as well as weapons demonstrations. I also work as a manikin at FAO Schwartz."
"You're…. a mannequin…. at the toy store," Rufus slowly says, repeating the words slowly, as if he were not entirely sure he had heard properly. Now he's looking at Nestor with arched eyebrows and far more wariness than before. He's got the look of someone who thinks he's being confronted by a little bit of crazy. "I must admit to never having been in the toy store before. I didn't realise they hired people to do such a thing."
Nestor shrugs. "Not usually, no. But, I impressed them. It's a living, same as any other. Why is that so hard to believe?"
There's a looooong moment of hesitation. Rufus edges back a single step and folds his arms across his chest, studying Nestor with one eyebrow ticking a little higher than the other. "Mainly due to the fact that it sounds ludicrous, I should think," he finally states.
Nestor spreads his hands, a hurt look on his face. "What? Why are you freaked out by that?"
Scrivner glances over at Durandal for a second, brow furrowing, before he returns to studying Nestor. "Are you serious? Is this some sort of joke at my expense? Is someone secretly filming us?" He edges back yet another step and takes a look around, eyes narrowed.
Nestor raises an eyebrow, looking at Durandal. "Where did you find this guy?" To Scrivner, he says, "What is your problem? I made a choice, of how to live my life, and you think it's a joke? F*ck you. You think you're better than me, just because your career history doesn't include street performer or maniquin? What gives you the right?" He's angry now, and he takes a step forward.
Durandal stands smoothly, and lightning-quick. One moment he's seated, the next he almost seems to teleport between the two. His arms extend to plant one hand on each man's chest, keeping them apart. "He didn't mean nothing by it…" He says to Nestor, jerking his head towards Scrivner. "…he just has a different way of looking at things, different point of view. Cultural divide." He smiles easily to Nestor, then to Scrivner. "So, let's all just take a breath." He sniffs and nods to the ground, and the pidgeons. "You're upsetting my loyal worshippers."
Now Scrivner stops edging back from the man, eyebrows arching at Nestor's behaviour. But then he glances down at the hand on his chest, at the way Durandal moves, and he studies the other man with some interest. "I am quite calm, thank you," he says, though he doesn't make a move to push off the touch. "And not at all inclined towards violence. It's quite unnecessary." Then he smiles at Nestor, and it's not entirely pleasant to look at.
Nestor shrugs. "I'm not inclined towards violence either. I've been told it isn't the answer to my problems. I'm just saying maybe you should be a bit more open-minded, is all."
Durandal smiles and nods his head. "Good, I'm glad to here it…" He sits back down and reaches for the bread. He grabs a couple of slices and grabs the table knife. "Becuase I /am/ inclined to violence, and I didn't want to have to knock your heads in on my lunchbreak." He waves the knife between the pair, chuckling, then stabs it into the jar and begins to lather the bread with chunky peanut butter.
"Really? Is that what you were saying?" Scrivner retorts, far too mildly. "It was difficult to hear that in the accusations and insults. I must have missed it." He clicks his tongue against his teeth and again settles a looong, long look on Durandal, like he's not suddenly too sure about that guy either.
Nestor rolls his eyes. "Insults? Whatever. Yes, that's what I was saying. Sorry you couldn't hear it." He's pretty sarcastic, isn't he?
Durandal finishes his sandwhich and shoves the knife back in the jar. "There, now we can all be friends again." He takes a big bite and begins to chew.
Scrivner's smile doesn't waver. "Yes," he says. "I rather regret having to listen to it myself, mate." Folding his arms across his chest again, he lifts a finger to rub at the side of his mouth, again watching Durandal out of the corners of his eyes.
Nestor shrugs. "So, don't put yourself in that position, and you won't have to worry about it." He smiles, as if this is an obvious idea.
"Put myself in that position… What position would that be? Getting accosted by strange men on the sidewalk in the park?" Rufus inquires with an arching of his eyebrow. "Well, normally I /do/ try, but you know how it is with the elements of questionable stability in society, I'm /sure./"
Nestor raises both eyebrows. "Acosted? I was off over there, doing my own thing, and you started giving me the hairy eyeball. So I wanted to know what was so interesting. The position of having to hear someone speak to you about proper courtesy."
"Ahhhh, yes, I forgot. This is New York. Making eye contact with someone who is swinging around a katana in Central Park is a /perfectly/ legitimate reason to be accosted and harassed," Scrivner says with a faint nod of his head. "So reasonable too. Because that is not at /all/ unusual and not at all going to attract anyone's attention. It just screams subtlety. And /thank you/ for teaching me about proper courtesy. Please allow me to return the favour with a hearty 'fuck you' right back at you, sir."
Durandal chuckles as he swallows the last of his sandwhich. "Well, I can see that you two need some alone time, and I don't want any of this overwhelming testosterone to drip into my peanut butter, so I think I'm gonna mosey on." He coos a bit, and the pigeons start to disperse. Durandal stands and collects his things.
Nestor shakes his head, smiling a little. His anger has apparently changed to amusement. "And now I harassed you. Wow. Such a great many things I didn't do, that I find I actually did do. Wonders never cease. For the most part, New Yorkers don't care. Usually? No, that isn't a big deal. Nothing more than a passing glance. It's only the tourists who feel the need to stare. Because, that guy with the sword might really be unstable, and eye contact would set him off. That's the New Yorker mentality. Heck, I've only been here a few months and I know that." He looks to Durandal. "Sorry. I think I'll leave, too. Don't want to accost and harass anyone else, do I?"
Durandal shrugs at Nestor. "Hey, it's a free country. Accost away." He waves over his shoulder. "Just don't kill each other."
Scrivner takes a step back to give Durandal plenty of room to get up and pass without hindrance, eyeing the way the pigeons follow after him. "Yes, I can see," Rufus says, turning to look back at Nestor. "Making eye contact is grounds for receiving an onslaught of idiocy and insanity." He shakes his head a few times, then starts to walk, deciding to continue on his way as well.
Nestor shrugs, waving to Durandal, and goes off his own way, as well, across the Park instead of along a path.
Any additional notes fall to the bottom.