Fray may have begun to change his tune about tieflings, and Right might even be starting to think he’s more than a parody of a paladin, but he still has plenty of moments. They’re not near so egregious as his xenophobic behavior was, of course. It’s more that they’re just annoying. He’ll shoot an arrow just as Right is about to pull the trigger, or drag the whole party to a halt to dig out some half-buried thing he’d spotted. Worse, with that honey candy he’s gotten from Halsin, he talks more, and he mostly talks to Right. Among other things.
“No spade on your tail.”
Right doesn’t hear it; they are recovering from the startle of feeling their tail grabbed. Twisting, they find that, of course, it’s Fray, holding the end of Right’s tail in his hand. “First,” they say, snatching their tail out of his hands, “don’t grab people’s tails. It’s extremely disrespectful.” Fray blinks and nods. “Second, tieflings have all kinds of tails.”
“But mostly with spades.”
“You’ve seen something like twenty tieflings in your entire life!”
“Spades,” Fray repeats, stubborn.
The point of the matter is, Right has decided Fray deserves some annoyances of his own.
It has been. A week. A whole seven days of Right flaunting. That is what they’re doing, Fray has decided. Flaunting. Bragging, even. Why else would Right make such bald-faced, targeted comments? I’ve got to find a better fire resistance elixir and Karlach singed a handprint into me, do you think it will scar and she only has the one horn but that doesn’t slow her down at all.
“What?” Fray snaps when Right drops this gem of knowledge into his lap, at the end of this insufferable week. He might have felt bad for his tone, except for the way Right is watching him for a reaction. Fine. They’ll get one. “Horn? What?”
The camp is empty but for Halsin, asleep in wildshape at the edge of the trees. Foraging duty fell to Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart; Gale is convinced there’s something magical hidden in a rock face twenty minutes away; gods only know where Astarion and Lae’zel have gotten to. This leaves Fray, once more fussing to pack his travel gear in a manner that suits him, and Right, perched on a nearby rock and reading one of the books that has made its way into their belongings. Or, they had been doing so. For about ten minutes now the book has sat half closed on their lap, and Fray feels their eyes upon him. The horn comment interrupts his attempts to figure out what on earth he’s to do with all of these spell scrolls.
At his answer, Right’s ears flick once toward Fray before resuming their constant, deerlike swiveling. “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know,” they say archly, kicking out their hooves to cross them in a different position. “Tiefling horns are the focus of our magic. Conducts it like a lightning rod.”
Fray did not know this. It also does not answer his question. “So?”
“So if you crack one or if it snaps off, it can really hobble your magic ability.”
“Karlach doesn’t use magic. Just the animal thing.”
“Oh, I know,” says Right with a self-satisfied smirk that tells Fray this was the exact route they were hoping this conversation would go down. “But the magic in the horns makes them very sensitive to touch, especially by someone who does use magic. It’s a major insult to grab someone by the horns, since, you know.”
“Disrespectful,” says Fray. “Tail. I remember.”
“Oh, no. It’s—”
They are interrupted by Scratch’s excited barking and the sudden rush of movement as a rabbit comes tearing between the two of them. The dog is hot on its tail, and before either can react the rabbit has bolted into that little cave and its assembly of rags. Bad mistake; there’s nowhere for it to go. Fray winces a little at the rabbit’s scream, until Scratch cuts it short.
It’s perfectly good food, though, and Fray likes rabbit. He hurries over to where Scratch is still shaking the thing, hopeful he might be able to salvage some meat. And it doesn’t hurt that it gives him a wonderful excuse to stop talking to Right.
One week, three days. Fray would have hoped that he would have either grown thicker skin for the teasing, or that Right would have gotten bored by now. No such luck.
Fray’s fraying temper finally breaks as they sit high in the hills, having broken from the camp and the group that has split away to see if any other riches can be had from that underground Zhentarium hold. The day is just too hot to be comfortable, and muggy besides. Fray’s hair sticks to the back of his neck, and his scars itch miserably. Fray had hiked up here in hopes of a breeze that is not forthcoming, and is now considering making his way down to the shallow creek that laps around the hill’s foot. For now, he’s settled for pulling off his shirt, and sits examining it for damage. It’s his last good shirt, and sometimes he thinks it is his last connection to normality. He has a borrowed needle and thread from Gale, and all he needs is some peace and quiet to mend the thing.
This would not normally be an issue with Right, except for this thing they’ve decided to be doing.
The tiefling stands with their back against the broad elm tree that crowns the hill, arms folded across their chest. They have no purpose here, as far as he can discern; they simply followed him up here to annoy him. It’s working.
“You know, I keep meaning to ask Karlach how she keeps her clothes from burning away—”
“Stop,” Fray grinds out.
“Stop what?”
The motion Fray makes in answer is sharp and irritated, but does little to communicate anything else. “Karlach.”
“Would you like to elaborate?” Right says dryly, as if they have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You know.”
“I know talking is a problem for you, but I’m afraid I don’t have a detect thoughts scroll with me at present.”
Fray twists enough to look at them. In the shade of the tree it becomes hard to differentiate them from the bark, even in their loose-fitting camp clothes, but he can find their eyes. He lets his face empty, his stare become hard, all the subtle things that he knows make him look threatening. “All week. Talking to me about Karlach, Karlach, Karlach—you slept with her. Had a great time. I get it.”
“Hm,” says Right, with that bland affect they sometimes have. “I would have thought you’d like to know. Since tieflings are off-limits for you, and all.”
Fray throws down his shirt and stands, rounding on Right. It’s only a few steps to close the gap between them, for Fray to invade Right’s space entirely. Right, who is wholly unimpressed, cocks an eyebrow. “What?” they say with a hint of a smirk. “Can’t handle some teasing?”
A true thing about Fray is with how little he speaks, it can be troublesome for him to so much as find the words he needs to express himself. He’s much better at it in handcant, eloquent, even, but speaking? He’s lucky if he can string together the right words on a good day. The fact he is overheated and annoyed and very much wishes to punch Right does not make this an easier task. His tongue ties itself up, his jaw misbehaves. The best he can manage is to bare his teeth. He feels stupid and childish, but Right is hitting a sore spot. Yes, of course he’s jealous. Of course he can’t do anything about it but look on and quietly pine. Right doesn’t have to mock him about it.
Words finally shake themselves out. “Last warning,” he says in a growl.
Right scoffs. “Or what? You’ll go back to moping? Buck up, Fray.”
Before he’s quite aware he’s done it, Fray’s body answers. His hand shoots out, quick as an arrow, and wraps itself around one of Right’s horns. He pushes their head back with it, trying to pin the pointed tip to the tree, a message delivered by his actions instead of his mouth: stop screwing around. A kind of sharp, not-unpleasant prickling in his palm gives him pause. He’s stopped entirely by the sound Right makes, not one of outrage or indignity, but—
They gasp, a high keening sound. Their spine arches. Fray stares, fully taken off-guard by what is an unmistakable, strangled moan.
Then Right collects themselves, rips Fray’s hand away, and drives their knee into his gut.
Suddenly the pair of them are on the ground, all snarls and fists. Hand-to-hand combat is far from Fray’s speciality, and Right doesn’t seem much better. The struggle is haphazard and messy, full of scratching and hair-pulling. For a moment Right is on top of him, their hooves tearing at the earth as they try to bear down with their superior weight; another moment and Fray has rolled them over, trying and failing to pin down their wrists. It’s here that Fray finally catches sight of their face. The outrage is expected. The embarrassment, the way their face has gone dark with blood rushing to the surface, is not. He looks too long, trying to put together what exactly is happening, and Right nails him in the side with a hoof. While he’s wheezing they throw him off and leap after, punching, clawing, hissing.
It is of course inevitable that they should start rolling down the hill. The momentum of the struggle sees them sliding further and faster, tumbling down together. Fray yanks at Right’s ear and is surprised to feel the soft fuzz of fur that covers the outside of it. Right scores their claws along his sides and arms, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to hurt. They are a boiling mass of limbs and snarls, fully locked in their attention on the other. It’s a small miracle that when they finally roll off the slope and land in the creek, neither strikes their head on the stones.
The shock of the water is enough to pull Fray from his instincts. He shoves Right as hard as he can to escape their snagging claws and scrambles backwards. The water is shallow, a scarce three inches, and he finds himself sat in it with wild eyes and a pounding heart. His breath heaves in and out of him as his eyes rove over Right and the mess they’ve become. Their hair is falling from its bun; their shirt collar is torn, revealing just slightly the curve of a hidden breast; they look wholly winded and wholly come apart.
A traitorous voice in Fray’s brain remarks that they look good, dishevelled like this.
“What,” he starts, and must stop to cough up some water.
Right looks mortified. “I told you,” they say, panting, scandalized. “I told you not to grab horns!”
“Said it was an insult,” Fray counters.
Right’s eyes widen. They look away sharply. “Well,” they say, their voice uncharacteristically high-pitched. “Don’t do it again.”
“You stop teasing.”
“Fine,” snaps Right, getting to their feet and starting to wring the water from their pants. Their tail lashes furiously; their ears are pinned back, like an angry dog. “Same to you. Don’t bring this up to anyone.”
Before Fray can puzzle out what this means, they have darted back into the shadows, vanishing from view.
Karlach doesn’t shy away from things. It’s one of the things that endears her to Fray, who can’t stand it when people beat around the bush.
He’s sure to approach her alone, where they are unlikely to be overheard. He makes up a lie, unwilling to admit to whatever it was that happened on the hill. “Overheard the tieflings,” he tells her that night, as she gets ready to take the first shift of watch. “Talking about horns. Said grabbing them is an insult?” And to make it seem more genuine, “That what happened to yours?”
Karlach, midway through lighting a torch, stops long enough to give him a look that is half flabbergasted and half amused. “Nah,” she says, grinning slowly. “Lost that fighting demons. Great big hammer. Took me out of commission for a while, ’til the migraines and vertigo stopped. It messes up your balance something fierce, having an uneven head!”
“Oh,” is all Fray can find to say, still puzzling. The mortified look on Right’s face is still burned into his mind.
“Insult’s not quite how I’d put it,” Karlach goes on, still smiling to herself. The question has clearly entertained her, which makes Fray’s gut clench in an anxious way. “Maybe more a faux pas. I mean, it’s rude either way.”
“Why?”
“You don’t let just anybody grab your ass, do you?”
It takes Fray what feels like an absurd amount of time to process this answer. All at once he is grateful for the darkness, for he can feel his face heating up. “Oh,” he says again, tilting his head to try and hide the livid color he can feel crawling up his neck.
“I might be out of date there, though,” Karlach goes on, seemingly without noticing. “What with being in the Hells and all for so long. Gods, does that make me old-fashioned? I’m so out of touch! When I was a sprout it was something you didn’t even consider bringing up unless you were getting serious.”
“Got it,” mumbles Fray, and decides he will simply have to avoid Right for the rest of his life.