unjustifiable | 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆

[ When the dust settles, James will blame himself for this. He was the one who suggested they take a shortcut.

They're near the docks, close enough to the harbor that he can smell the sea and the pungent scent of today's catch. He used to walk this route every day, back before he dismantled his own life, and he knows these winding streets well.

Or rather, he used to know them. The city is different now, darker and meaner and more dangerous. It's been weeks since the Crown of Karsus went plummeting into the Chionthar, but the streets are still strewn with chunks of fallen rubble, and every now and then he catches the scent of soot on the wind.

James begins to second-guess himself when a fallen retaining wall forces them to take a detour. He picks a random side street and leads Igarak in what he thinks is the direction of the main road. The reach a dead end right as the last rays of evening sun disappear behind the rooftops. That's when something shiny and metallic flashes in his peripheral vision.

He turns on his heel to warn Igarak, but his reaction comes far too late. He hears footsteps behind him, then feels the cold kiss of a blade at his throat. Someone wrenches hard at his arm, pulling him backwards into a solid, living weight. He can't see his attacker, but he can smell them. They stink of sweat and blood and something foul that might be offal. ]

Wait -

[ He's cut off by the sound of a slamming door and more footsteps. Gods above, he's led them into an ambush. He's going to get Igarak killed trying to save his worthless skin. He begins to panic, the blade of the knife biting into the skin of throat as he struggles uselessly against his assailant. ]

Get out of here. Hurry!

Edited 2025-12-02 23:22 (UTC)

[ His time wandering the streets of Baldur's Gate had left him with a decent sense of the city's layout, but the landscape has changed since the fall of the Nether Brain. Rubble clutters the roads, buildings stand half-collapsed, and some alleyways simply no longer exist. Once, perhaps, he could have navigated with ease, known every facet of the city like the back of his hand, but that knowledge is gone like so many of his memories. James has lived here a long time; he knows these streets better than Igarak could hope to, so Igarak lets him take the lead.

While he senses they might be drifting off course, he isn't troubled at first. They aren't in a hurry. All paths lead to the main road eventually--except, of course, when they lead to a dead end instead. Frustration bubbles in him then, harsh words on the tip of his tongue. Before he can give voice to them, the dead end is suddenly the least of their concerns.

He recognizes the danger at the same moment James does, still a heartbeat too late to stop the blade from finding James' throat.

Igarak isn't wearing armor. He left his sword behind. Under normal circumstances, no one would be stupid enough to attack so boldly. Armor or no amor, however, his body is a weapon--and he has two daggers on his belt besides.

He immediately drops into a fighting stance but doesn't yet strike. James is obviously being used as leverage, which means they want something. Ignoring the man's order to flee--as if he'd ever abandoned the defenseless, least of all someone he feels responsible for, who he now considers a friend--Igarak does a quick sweep of the surroundings, counting targets, searching shadows, before locking his gaze on the one holding James. His voice comes out as a sharp, demanding growl. ]

Who are you? What do you want?

[ James watches in mute horror as Igarak flings himself into danger. He knows that his friend is a warrior of near-unmatched prowess, but that doesn't change the fact that they're outnumbered and unprepared. It's plain to him that he should be the one to stay behind. His death will be no great loss to anyone, but Igarak is a hero. This city needs heroes far more than it needs the likes of him.

If he were capable, he'd say as much, but panic constricts his throat like a vise. It's odd to fear death again after he spent so long wishing for it. Maybe he's just afraid of dying before he gets the chance to repay the debt he owes.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Igarak, trying to will him to run away. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work. Rather than answering the question, the man restraining him makes an odd wheezing noise and drives the tip of his knife into James' skin. He stiffens, biting back a gasp of pain. He can feel something wet trickling down his throat.

"We are wolves among bleating sheep. Unlike you, blood traitor, we have kept the faith."

The man's voice is a reedy hiss in his ear. Cultists, James thinks. Ordinary cutthroats would have skipped the theatrics and knifed them already. If the man's accent is anything to go by, this group isn't local.

"We know you. We know of your perfidy. A weapon turned against its exalted Maker must be destroyed, but its raw materials need not be wasted. What a splendid tapestry we shall weave from your sinews."

James has heard enough. He sees his chance, and he takes it. While the man's attention is focused on Igarak, he sinks his teeth into the hand holding the knife to his throat. The cultist yelps in pain and clutches his wounded hand, affording James the chance to pull away. He stumbles in Igarak's direction, nearly deafened by the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears. ]

We've got to go! Now!

[ The moment the first words leave the man's mouth, Igarak knows exactly what they're dealing with. His stomach drops--not for himself, but for James. He knows firsthand what Bhaalists are capable of, every vile thing they won't hesitate to do should things go awry.

While the cultist drones on, drunk on the sound of his own voice, Igarak's mind races. He weighs every option, calculating the safest way to get James safely out of there... when James suddenly acts of his own accord. Recklessly. ]

James. What are you--

[ It's already too late to stop him. All Igarak can do is react. He counters a spell that's been hurled at James and catches him as he stumbles, claws tearing through fabric as he attempts to yank the man behind him without any kindness. As he does so, he mutters an incantation, and a shimmer of light briefly surrounds James like a shield, granting him slightly more protection. ]

Don't you dare move until I say so.

[ James doesn't see the spell that's flung at him. He has no idea how close he's just come to an ugly demise. All he knows is that they need to escape, and fast. Staying around to fight these lunatics seems borderline suicidal. Either they'll be killed quickly now or slowly later. He knows that Igarak despises Bhaal's worshipers for many very good reasons, but he hopes that the paladin will see reason and beat a tactical retreat.

Those hopes are dashed when the shimmering barrier forms around him. James knows then that Igarak intends to stand and fight. He makes a strangled, frustrated noise at the back of his throat, his body so flooded with adrenaline that he doesn't even notice the deep scratches in his arm or the blood soaking the front of his doublet.

The only thing that James' little stunt accomplished was to divert the cultists' attention to his protector. The man with the knife, who seems to be the one in charge, falls into a fighting stance and lunges at Igarak, his blade glinting as it arcs through the air. The cultist's accomplice sends a bolt of fire flying, but it goes wide. James is so fixated on his friend that he doesn't even flinch when the firebolt lands a few feet away from him, immolating a pile of rotting wooden shingles. The blaze reveals another assassin crouched in the shadows near the back of the alley.

James doesn't like these odds. If he weren't so useless, they might have a chance, but three against one is hardly a fair fight. He raises his voice over the roaring in his ears, desperate to warn Igarak. ]

Watch out, there's a third one back there!

[ With James behind him, Igarak isn't able to properly dodge the dagger. The blade slices a shallow line across his chest, tearing skin and fabric alike. He's had worse, though. Much worse. The sting barely registers before he's already reacting, growling out an incantation. ]

Non movarē!

[ Pink light snaps around the cultist before him, locking his limbs mid-motion. The man's cry cuts short as his body seizes, going as still as a statue. Igarak shoves at James. ]

Move--but stay close! Don't run!

[ Not yet, at least. Turning your back on a Bhaalist assassin is an invitation for a knife between the shoulder blades, and Igarak has no intention of letting James bleed out in an alley.

With the primary threat neutralized for the time being, he shifts his focus to the other two. He raises his hands, magic flying from his fingers as he utters another spell. Four scorching rays burst forth, two for each assassin. ]

[ Despite being a dead weight in most respects, James at least has the sense to follow a direct order. He takes cover behind a waist-high pile of rubble, crouching down so as not to catch a spell or arrow or with his face.

He feels utterly useless. All he can do is cower in his hiding spot while Igarak fights for both of their lives. The rubble obscures his view of the scene, which he's oddly grateful for. He doesn't think he has the strength to watch Igarak die for him. When he hears a ragged shriek of agony, his heart jumps into his throat. He's on his feet in an instant, far past the point of giving a damn about self-preservation.

His relief at seeing Igarak alive is so overwhelming that he doesn't immediately process the rest of the scene. ]

Thank the gods.

[ He takes a deep breath, then gags when the smell hits him: burnt flesh, acrid and rancid. Only then does he notice the immobilized cultist flanked by two charred figures on the ground. One of the bodies is little more than a lump of cinder, barely even recognizable as having once been human. The other is comparatively intact, which is far worse. Burnt skin sloughs off the body, exposing fat and muscle. James stares, horrified. Then it moves. ]

Igarak. He's still alive.

[ His voice is a strangled whisper. He sways on his feet, trying not to vomit. He's not a soldier. He's never known slaughter. His only firsthand experience with death was when he -

When he -

He swallows, tasting bile. That was different, he tells himself. That was quick. He didn't make her suffer, not like this. But he still he killed her. ]

Oh, gods. Mary...

Not for long.

[ The words leave him on a low, venomous growl. He's not even sure James hears them. His hand is already moving, drawing a dagger from his belt: Orin's dagger. His dagger. There is no solid memory attached to it, yet he knows it with bone deep certainty.

He doesn't hesitate. The blade carves through the air, and he drives it into the cultist's gut with such brutal force that the momentum brings him to one knee. The cultist lets out a wet, gurgling cry, and Igarak watches him intently, chest heaving, making absolutely certain that it's the last sound the man ever makes.

Only when he's satisfied, and with the lead assassin still immobilized, does he chance a look over his shoulder.

James stands there like a startled animal. No, not startled. Horrified.

Igarak doesn't have time to wonder which part of the gruesome scene inspired that look. A shimmer of movement catches his attention, and his eyes widen as a cold weight settles in his gut. ]

James! Behind you!

[ A fourth assassin appears, shedding her invisibility as she closes in on James. A spell is already forming on Igarak's lips, but he knows he can't act quickly enough. He can only hope James ducks or moves or something, anything, to buy him some time. ]

[ James has just enough time to turn around before the assassin is on him. He instinctively raises one arm to protect himself. The dagger meant for his heart snags on his sleeve, its blade biting into the meat of his forearm. He yelps in pain and falls backward to the ground, staggered by the force of the blow. The back of his skull hits the cobblestones with a gut-churning crack. The pain blots out his other senses like smoke blots out the sun, and for a few horrible seconds he knows nothing but agony.

When the pain recedes to something manageable, James realizes that there's something heavy on his chest. It's the assassin, and her blade is raised. He reaches up to grab her knife hand by the wrist, but his strength is failing. He only has seconds before she overpowers him and brings the knife down again.

Desperate panic surges through him. He's not ready to die yet. He still has a debt to repay. ]

Get the hells off me!

[ At that moment, an orb of thunder comes roaring towards them. The blast hits the assassin, the shockwave rattling the air and hurling her off of James.

Igarak is on her in an instant. He crashes into her with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs and pins her to the ground. In a twisted mirror of the position she'd just had James in, she catches his wrist, stopping his dagger from coming down on her. But Igarak is not deterred.

Like lightning, a second dagger appears in his free hand--the dagger he'd been holding for James. He wastes no time burying it in her trachea.

Her eyes widen in horrified realization, and the sight sparks something electric in him, something dark, familiar, and hungry. It's been so long since he's fought like this, with death occuring mere centimeters away. His pulse quickens. His breath deepens.

He pushes the blade farther, slower than an efficient kill would require. He is possessed with the need to see her die.

Her anguished, gurgled cry and the blood spilling from her lips send a shiver down his spine. He savors both--but he is not so lost to forget the immobilized assassin behind him or that the spell holding him will soon wear off.

As the woman's trembling grip weakens, Igarak brings the other dagger down, driving it through her face and silencing her final cry. ]

[ By the time James manages to pick himself up from the cobblestones, it's nearly over. He hears the woman's cry before he sees what Igarak has done to her. It's not a pretty sight. Far worse than the woman's ruined face is Igarak's expression. He's seen his friend angry plenty of times, but this is something else. It takes James a moment to recognize the emotion for what it is: pleasure. Fascination.

He takes an unsteady step backwards, horrified yet somehow unable to look away. In the light of the guttering flames, Igarak is scarcely recognizable. It's as though something foreign has slipped into the man's skin. As the predator savors his kill, James' gaze drifts down to the daggers, both of them filthy with gore. One of them is a strange, curved blade that he's never seen before, but the other is instantly recognizable. His dagger. His wedding gift.

His stomach churns. When he gave the dagger to Igarak for safekeeping, he never imagined that it would be used for something like this, but maybe he shouldn't be so precious about it. It's not as though his own hands aren't dirty.

His gawking is cut short by a muffled cry from the immobilized cultist. The spell is wearing off. James stiffens. He's not sure what he dreads more: what the assassin will do, or what Igarak will do to him. ]

We should go now. He won't come after us. You've already killed his friends.

[ He doesn't like the pleading note that slips into his voice. ]

[ A moment passes, in which Igarak doesn't react to James at all. He only stares at the woman beneath him, watching the last sliver of life drain from the one eye his blade hasn't mangled. With a wet, squelching sound, he pulls both daggers free, and a slow, shuddering breath escapes him as he rises from her corpse. ]

Don't be foolish.

[ His own voice reaches him, flat and haunted by bloodlust. He swallows hard and finally turns to James, the woman's blood spattered hot across his face. ]

Even if by some miracle he didn't follow, the moment he crawls back to his hive, you become a target, too.

[ Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the immobilized assassin just as the spell wears off. The dagger in his hand glows with golden light as he raises it high above. The man, realizing what's about to befall him, tries to move, but Igarak doesn't give him a chance.

His voice cracks as he growls-- ]

You will burn for your sins.

[ --and brings the dagger down upon the man's chest.

It's not as swift or as clean as what he can accomplish with his sword, but that neither stops him nor slows him down. He drags the dagger downward. Beneath the man's raw screams comes a sound Igarak hasn't heard in so long: the brittle crack of a ribcage splitting open. Divine light floods the crevice, illuminating the man from within. ]

[ To be a paladin is to hold oneself to a higher moral standard than the selfish, violent, craven rabble that James counts himself among. To be a paladin is to be noble. To be a paladin is to show mercy, just as Igarak showed mercy to him on that horrible day not so long ago.

The man who stands before him now is not capable of mercy. As James stands there rooted to the spot, no more capable of speech than the ruined carcasses on the ground, he wonders which is the real Igarak: the man who saved his life, or the butcher who kills like it's second nature. Like he was made for this. Maybe he was.

James realizes then that he doesn't really know his friend at all.

He knows what's about to happen the moment the dagger starts to glow. The man's screams break him out of his trance. ]

Enough. Please.

[ He staggers forward, desperate to make it stop, but all he manages to do is put himself within splatter range when Igarak splits the man's chest open like an overripe fruit. The slaughterhouse reek of fresh blood fills his nose and mouth. Then he hears the crack. That proves too much for his constitution. He doubles over and retches onto the cobblestones. ]

[ Even if Igarak had registered his friend's pleas, it wouldn't matter. He can't stop. Not now.

As the divine light fades, and the man's cries dwindle into silence, Igarak stares hungrily at his face: at the final, frozen contortion of his terror. He commits the sight to memory.

When the body slumps to the ground, the blade slides free with a wet, sucking sound that sends another sickening thrill through him. Gods. Even as he relishes it, he knows it's sick--and yet he lingers over the body, breathing hard as his own body aches with unmentionable need.

At some point, he registers the sound beside him. He turns, finding James doubled over and vomiting onto the cobblestones. He starts. ]

James.

[ His voice still sounds wrong to his own ears, distant and flat, as though coming from somewhere far away. But he's at James' side at once, hands hovering, gaze looking him over. The man is covered in blood, but very little, if any, appears to be his own. ]

Are you hurt?

[ By the time James finishes heaving up the contents of his stomach onto the already-filthy street, it's all over. There's a strange roaring in his ears. It drowns out the ambient noise of the city, as though everything beyond the mouth of the alley has vanished to some other plane.

He wipes his mouth on the back of a trembling hand and stares blankly at the gory tableau in front of him, looking but not really seeing. He doesn't hear Igarak call his name. The paladin seems to simply appear at his side like some ghastly apparition, rendered unfamiliar by the layer of blood and gore that covers him from head to foot. James stiffens. He eyes the mouth of the alley, but he doesn't run. It's not as though Igarak would let him get very far.

Is he hurt? He doesn't know. His whole body feels numb, though nothing seems to be spurting blood or bent at the wrong angle. He tries to say as much, but his mouth refuses to do as he wills it. Stymied, he shakes his head mutely. His eyes dart everywhere but to Igarak's face. ]

[ Reeling from adrenaline and bloodlust, it doesn't even occur to Igarak that James' reaction might have anything to do with him. It's not unreasonable to assume the man is simply overwhelmed. He said he was a clerk before all of this; he's likely never seen so much blood, let alone been covered in it.

Just in case an injury might have gone unnoticed in the chaos, Igarak kneels and lays a hand on his shoulder, intending to heal him. ]

[ The hand on his shoulder dispels the numbing fog that fills his head. When Igarak touches him, he forgets reason, tact, attachment, and all the other things that make him human; he is simply an animal trying to save its own skin. He flinches backwards out of the predator's reach, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. ]

No! Please, no.

[ He doesn't even know what he's begging for. As the seconds pass and Igarak fails to pounce on him, the adrenaline subsides enough for him to think again. He realizes what he must look like, cowering like a frightened child, and makes an effort to master himself. ]

I - I'm fine. I don't need anything.

[ He still can't look Igarak in the eye. He can't look at anything. The nauseating aftermath of the slaughter is everywhere, so he stares down at his boots. ]

[ Igarak jerks his hand away the moment James recoils. Understanding finally seeps through the fading blood haze. James is afraid of him.

Shame creeps in, cold and sickening. His gaze sweeps over the carnage. Letting the Bhaalists live would have been irresponsible, a betrayal of his oath, and his promise to himself. He shouldn't feel ashamed.

But maybe James saw in him what his other friends have either failed to see or chosen to ignore.

It's the sort of reaction he always expected from people. Fear, revulsion... Anything other than the blasé acceptance that usually meets the confessions of his dark thoughts and horrible misdeeds. Yet receiving it now...

It hurts.

Something twists low in his guts. He doesn't look at James as he wipes the blades clean on his pants and then reattaches them to his belt. There's a distinct strain to his voice when he speaks. ]

Come. Let's get back to the main road.

[ James knows in a distant, detached sort of way that he has no moral high ground to stand on. What a rank hypocrite he must seem, to snivel and cower at the sight of blood after what he's done with his own two hands. These people were vile, murderous cultists, after all. Mary was innocent. He has no right to be so horrified, but he still can't dispel the nausea that churns in his gut. He's never seen anyone take such pleasure in causing others pain. He keeps thinking back to that look on Igarak's face, the naked cruelty in it. He thinks about what it might be like to have that gaze turned on him. It's no less than he deserves.

Maybe he's a fool to be shocked by any of this. He knew that his friend was a Bhaalspawn, and he knew that there were dark things in his past, but he could never square either of those facts with what he had seen of Igarak's personality. As the two of them grew closer, he even started to wonder whether his friend had exaggerated his own culpability out of guilt. Now he knows better.

He also knows that he's hurt Igarak. The strain in his friend's voice speaks volumes. Apologizing won't help. Nothing can help. Feeling suddenly exhausted, he wipes his face with the cleaner of his two sleeves, grimacing when the fabric comes away sticky with drying blood. ]

All right.

[ His tone is flat and empty. The fading adrenaline leaves him numb. He just wants to get away from this alley and drink until he forgets what he saw. He turns to leave, ignoring the jolt of fear he feels when he turns his back to Igarak. ]

I can make it back on my own.

[ If James' fear stings, his dismissal twists the knife. Even so, Igarak isn't about to let him wander off on his own, out of sorts, covered in blood, and in no condition to defend himself. The Bhaalists may be gone, but that hardly means James is safe. In this state, he's a prime target for any number of unsavory opportunists. ]

No. We stay together. We can part ways once you're home.

[ As Igarak speaks, he tries to grab James by the shoulder on instinct, giving no thought to how the man might perceive the gesture. ]

[ This time, he doesn't flinch away from the hand that grips his shoulder. He just freezes. He stays like that for a moment or two, the rise and fall of his chest his only movement. With his hair matted with blood and his clothing torn and filthy, he cuts a pathetic figure. His gaze drifts slowly down to Igarak's knife, then back up to his face. The fear in his expression is obvious, but beneath it is something furtive and perverse. Awe, perhaps, or fascination. Whatever it is, it's gone in an instant.

James clears his throat and forces his muscles to unclench. He does not want Igarak to think that he's afraid of him, even though he is. ]

Right. Of course.

[ It occurs to him that he shouldn't let Igarak walk around the city looking like he just rolled around on a slaughterhouse floor. He swallows nervously, his adam's apple bobbing. This new awkwardness between them is unpleasant, but he doesn't know how to dispel it. ]

You should wash up once we get there. I have some fresh clothes you can wear. They'll be small for you, but we'll make do.

[ The fear in James' eyes is an echo of the fear he saw in the assassins', and the same twisted hunger coils low in him now. The response visibly sickens him. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to dispel the image from his mind. With effort, he pulls his hand from James' shoulder and steps back, gaze falling to the ground in shame. His voice is low as he gives a single nod. ]

If that's what you wish.

[ It's his way of telling James he needn't do anything for him. If he wishes to slam the door in his face once he's safe at home (safe from Igarak), he can do so. It's what Igarak deserves. ]

[ Igarak is looking at him like he's a piece of meat. James' mouth is dry. If he were smart, he'd run, but he doesn't want to run. The messy end he has wished for and dreaded lies within arm's reach. He can almost feel the kiss of the knife and the agony that follows, but then Igarak pulls away. The spell is broken.

James stands there in silence for a moment, his mouth slightly open. He feels hot and cold all over, like he's in bed with a fever on the verge of breaking. ]

Uh. We should really get going.

[ On that hideously awkward note, he turns and leads the way to the abandoned house that he's been living in since Igarak pulled him out of the harbor. The walk seems to take longer than usual. He jumps at every shadow, the familiar scenery rendered somehow sinister. By the time they reach his front door, he's feeling strung out and exhausted. After fumbling with the key for a few seconds, he pushes the door open to reveal a small front room, empty save for a few rickety wooden chairs and a threadbare sofa by the hearth. ]

Make yourself at home. I'll fetch the washbasin.

[ Igarak follows, quietly casting a frost spell over the burning alley as they leave it behind. The flames hiss as they go out, but the quiet left behind does nothing to settle him. The more he tries not to think about what just occurred, the more it circles his mind, so he does what he always does when dark thoughts plague him: he clings to his oath, reciting its tenets over and over in his head. By the time they reach James' door, he has no idea how many times he's recited them. All he knows is that he still feels wretched.

He nods mutely when James says he'll fetch the basin. When the man moves deeper into the house, Igarak stands there as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He could sit on the sofa, he thinks, but the idea of being still is unbearable. His skin is crawling, his mind too loud.

He wouldn't hurt James. He knows he wouldn't. He knows. He's never hurt any of his friends, not even in the worst moments, not even when Bhaal's influence twisted his thoughts and tried to force his hand. He always resisted. He always fought. Whatever shadows remain inside him, they will not rule him. But James doesn't know that.

And maybe Igarak doesn't really know it, either. He had given in tonight, after all, willingly letting his darker impulses take over while fighting those Bhaalists--and he had enjoyed it.

When James returns, he'll find Igarak pacing restlessly, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tail whips anxiously behind him. Under his breath, he mutters his tenets again. ]

[ A few minutes later, James returns with the basin, a few clean-ish scraps of cloth, and a bucket of water from the well outside. He deposits the basin on one of the wooden chairs and fills it with water from the bucket, trying not to stare at Igarak as he does so. This isn't the first time he's seen his friend absorbed in some inner struggle, but tonight Igarak seems particularly tense, as though whatever he's fighting against were on the verge of winning. Despite the fear that still stalks him like his own shadow, James feels a painful jolt of sympathy for the man. ]

We'll just have to burn these clothes. I doubt the stains will ever come out.

[ He winces at how shaky his voice sounds, but there's nothing for it. Igarak already knows that he's a coward. He gets to work unlacing his doublet, anxious to rid himself of the blood-soaked clothes. As he does so, he sneaks a glance at Igarak. His expression is a strange medley of trepidation, concern, and curiosity. ]

Did it feel good?

[ Even before the words leave his mouth, he knows that he's made a horrible mistake. ]

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