Role

Chapter 3

Vaskal lay on his back and stared up at the stars.

It had happened again.

He'd thought this time would be different, but his gang had kicked him out.
A liability, they'd said. Can't keep your mouth shut, they'd said. Old
Kreth had said something about snitches while filing one of his knives, but
Vaskal hadn't really needed to hear more. He was an old hand at this by now.

This was the third time, after all. He'd been kicked out of the Rusty
Knives down in Arkham. Been beatten within at least half an inch of his
life when the Sultan's Cleaner's had chased him out of Hamsah Mu'tazz.
Lasted a scant two nights as a member of the Pure Profit's in Voralian, and
now the Dagdan's Finest (newly renamed as the Udgaardian Unmentionables)
had told him to get lost.

Always for the same reason. He couldn't help himself.

When they did a crime, he just had to tell people. He had to tell them all
the details. How else would he become famous, after all? How else would his
infamy grow? When you did something great, you should tell everyone. That
was how you ended up in the stories, after all, and more than anything:
Vaskal wanted to do things worthy of those stories. That was really how you
lived forever, after all. Carve your name so deep into the bones of the
world's collective consciousness that you'll hang over them all like a dark
shadow even in failure.

Though Vaskal just called it wanting to become famous.

It wasn't really safe to sleep in the streets of Udgaard. Loke didn't like
it, and what Loke didn't like the guards didn't like either. Some people
would risk it, but Vaskal wouldn't become famous if a guard dragged him to
the river and dumped him in with a rock around his ankles. He didn't mind
so much though. He liked sleeping out under the open sky. The vastness of
the heavens reminded him of just how small he was.

As he drifted off to sleep, Vaskal made his customary vow as he gazed up at
the vastness which loomed above.

One day, I will dwarf even the stars.