[color=#C2FFFB][center][h1]Father Yaroslav[/h1]
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Yaroslav tripped on a root, most of the way down the mountain, his mind at peace with his decision. As he thrust his arms down to catch himself, he saw the portal and vainly tried to grab the edges, and failed. Falling through a gap in reality, the elderly priest's last thoughts of home were of how God, or Satan, had prevented him from making good on his choice. He felt as though his fall lasted a lifetime...

[hr]

The priest woke up, mercifully, on a pile of bushes. He scanned around his environment and spotted the telltale signs of civilization in the form of rising smoke instantly. He had no clue where he'd landed, or how he'd gotten there in the first place, however Yaroslav was nothing if not cautious. Checking once more for any injuries he might have received, and finding nothing worrisome, he crept off of the pile of bushes and slowly walked towards the smoke.

When he finally came within about fifty paces of the mocked up camp, Yaroslav could not only see several of the newcomers, whom like him had probably arrived here by mysterious means, but he could also see their auras. It had been a gift recently bestowed upon him, and he still didn't have a full sense of what exactly it allowed him to do. He did know that it let him read the auras of others, and transform his own aura. And so, as he approached Yaroslav took in the auras that permeated the camp and reflected on what colour he should tinge his own. He saw lots of[/color][color=#97C59C] pale sickly greens,[/color][color=#000000] dark seething blacks,[/color][color=#C2FFFB] and[/color][color=#B2BF18] sizzling yellows[/color][color=#C2FFFB] that seemed to eat away at him. The mild synesthesia that he experienced with the usage of this strange new power was most disconcerting, especially when others felt those very unpleasant emotions that he himself sensed.

In order to combat the sensations of negative emotion that bombarded him and doubtless bombarded all those who dwelled in the camp, Yaroslav began tinging his aura with a[/color][color=#FF0C00] pure energetic red,[/color][color=#C2FFFB] a[/color][color=#0070FF] calming blue,[/color][color=#C2FFFB] a[/color][color=#2AFF00] scintillating green,[/color] [color=#C2FFFB]and of course just a mild dose of[/color][color=#FFFFFF] white.[/color] [color=#C2FFFB]Plenty of vitality, assurance, and intrigue, peppered with just a hint of divinity. That cocktail of aura-based influence, though not seen, would most certainly be felt. His work prepared, Yaroslav strode into the camp, his own aura propelling his stride in a peaceful but purposeful manner.

His eyes first fell on a large brutish looking man, with outlandishly green skin, who wore a terribly incongruous chef's hat. He was serving out curry, and at that moment Yaroslav felt his hunger ache in his stomach. The green fellow's aura itself lacked any discernible shade of green for the moment, an ironic point itself. However he was fraught with[/color][color=#453E2C] faded browns,[/color][color=#C2FFFB] and[/color][color=#D3C608] erratic yellows,[/color] [color=#C2FFFB]which despite Yaroslav's continued amazement at his own ability to do so, told him that the chef was having doubts about leadership.

Yaroslav strode up to the green man, picked up a bowl of curry, and with a broad smile he said, "You look like the man in charge around here. Mind telling me what the situation is here? And I hope you don't mind me sampling this tempting meal you've made either." The priest's voice carried with it a perfect blend of deference to the chef, while also retaining a kind of distance which implied the priest's definite status as a newcomer.

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