A/N: This probably won't be received well (what an idea. Something in the Bible section that won't be received well ;) ), but I'm writing it anyway (obviously). Honest opinions are appreciated. True flames are amusing. And, of course, glowing reviews full of my praise aren't bad, either…
The fire flickered. Orange tendrils danced around and around, bringing with them streams of smoke. Andariel winced as it stung her eyes. They watered fiercely; some of the water slipped down her face. She left it there. Let them think she was crying. It wasn't far from the truth.
The scene in front of her whirled by in large blobs of colour, bold reds and shimmering blues gaily adorning the faces of the actors. Actors made to look like her. Andariel winced as one mockingly shouted a comment to another, voicing the exact thing a friend of hers had said earlier. The audience hooted appreciatively.
Andariel drew her hood farther over her face, taking care to hide her ears. She didn't want to be recognised—it would only encourage greater mockery. She had come to watch, to learn, to see what it was others disliked so strongly about her kind. She had come expecting to be ridiculed. And the ridicule was occurring. But the learning…the learning was not.
The fire loomed brighter as another log rolled into it. Suddenly she looked up; an actor's gaze caught hers. Her breath stopped. His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he stared at her with cold intensity. She couldn't tear her eyes away. The mocking light in his eyes deepened into harsh hatred and she knew he'd recognised her.
"But of course they can't hear it," he shouted out suddenly, his voice high pitched and whiny. "Their ears are too inferior to ours!" The audience roared. Andariel felt sick. She stumbled to her feet, gripping her cloak tightly in her fists.
"That's right," the actor said softly. "Run away. Go complain to your race, have them pat you on the head. Tell them we're persecuting you. Your kind never has been able to understand the concept of satire."
Stifling the urge to bash his head in, Andariel turned and fled. Her heart twisted beneath her ribs, beating painfully. She wished she hadn't gone at all.
What had she hoped to learn? She already knew the things she and her people did came across as arrogant. She already knew the fault lay largely with them. She already knew they were hated for it.
Andariel stopped by a large tree, her lips pressing together. She knew why she had gone. She had hoped that, somehow, her going would show that they weren't all the same. That some of them did want to change. She should've known it wouldn't be received that way—how could it, when hatred hounded behind the mockery?
Another round of laughter rose into the air behind her. Turning her head, Andariel gazed at the distant, colourful scene. Would things ever change?
A/N: This piece isn't directed toward any particular person or story (in other words: this isn't written in response to Lucifer's story The Persecution Chronicles, which it could easily be interpreted as. So don't use that assumption as the impetus for a flame). It's a response to things that have happened in this section for years. Yes, I have been hanging around this section that long. Andariel can represent any group in here (even though I did have a specific group in mind while writing her). Take from it what you will.