[Witchchylde]

Yay, I got bit by the writing buggie!

"So, when were you going to tell me about the hyena?"
Biting back on a more vituperative reply, I carefully said, "That's not what they call themselves. It's like calling an Asian person an Oriental. It's just wrong."
Douglas just leaned back and grinned his irritatingly smug grin. "Okay, alien lover, what do 'they' like to be called?" Like he was daring me to show myself to be either just as ignorant as him, or traitorously well-informed. I could feel my teeth firing a warning shot against the clenching of my jaw.
"It's a bit more complicated than just knowing what planet they're from," I began explaining, hating to sound like a know-it-all, but hating the closed mindedness of one of my oldest friends just that tiny bit more.
"Any more than just calling us all Earthlings or Terrans, really. They have nationalities of their own, too."
"Okay, so what 'nationality' is your hyena, then," he pushed back.
I hoped he was just teasing, but anti-extraterrestrial sentiments were spreading like wildfire. I peeked at the window, where the silhouette of our visitor cast itself against the drawn curtain. Drawing a calming breath and releasing it as a sigh, I looked back to Doug. His shock of red hair falling across his forehead barely missed hiding the borderline contempt in his eyes. Oh dear.
"His name is Fluexis, and he's from the Summerlands of Altair. As for his nationality, I haven't actually asked him that, because," I added when Doug's copper eyes drew into sly, smug slits, "it would be like asking say, you, what you are. You know, German, Irish, what have you. It can be really upsetting!" I threw my hands up in defeat when he sputtered into derisive laughter.
"You know what? Fine. Fluexis and I will attend this convention without you,"I spat at him, turning to grab the door handle. A rough graps at my shoulder startled me into looking back at him.
"Not letting that happen," he nearly whispered. I knew what he was thinking: that because his species bore a resemblance to the hyenas of our world, that they must have the same predatory instincts.
"Let go of me," I warned, jerking my shoulder out of his grip. "This convention of nations is of vital importance, and as Ambassador to Altair, I will attend, without your xenophobia getting in our way." It was cruel of me to enjoy that look of confusion on Doug's face as he tried to work out what xenophobia meant. Pulling completely free of his grasp, I turned and made my exit.
Fluexis made a valiant attempt tp appear only casually interested in what had happened inside, though his crystalline green eyes showed his worry with the pinholing of his pupils. I gave him what I hoped would read as a reassuring smile. "Come, we have a driver awaiting our custom; let us away," I said with a grandiose sweep of my arm. Flue's left ear twitched in what I've already come to recognize as amusement.
"As you say, Mistress Melody," his soft growl of a voice replied with a fair approximation of a lordly bow. I couldn't help grinning at him.
He might have been mistaken for a savage by the scarcity of clothing, but to be honest, with that much fur, it would have been an invitation to heat stroke to cover him in full clothing. His sash and kilt were impressively decorated, as befitted a high ranking emissary from another world. The bold red and black served as contrast to the mottled patterning of his fur. Logic implied this custom evolved from a desire to show that an Altairian of the Summerlands was abandoning his camouflage as a gesture of good will towards other races of his world. A measure of trustworthiness.
I had attempted to dress in complement to his uniform, in a classic Little Black Dress with red accents. It crossed my mind that wearing his colors might read as declaring an allegiance to his nation over other Altairian nations, but whatever, I looked good in it.
Fluexis offered his arm in a gentlemanly gesture that might actually be universal. I graciously accepted his offer of support, noting that though a bit wiry, the fur of his arm was no stranger to the touch than a hirsute human's forearm.
"To the Embassy," he cried out with a suggestion of a roar in his voice that triggered a slight, instinctive skip of the heartbeat. Being descended from prey animals apparently still has its race memory responses. I was sure he picked up on the flush of fear, but he kindly avoided drawing attention to it.
"To the Embassy," I echoed with gusto, though with no impressive rumbling underneath. Together we climbed into the hired car -- not a limousine, to my relief -- and rode on towards the beginning of the Interstellar Compact.