Большинство людей смотрели на него с ужасом и со страхом

White.

Snow lays all around and you trudge after your father Yefim, lugging a load of firewood twice the size of the one he carries. Siberian winters are always cold and here in Pokrovakoye it’s no different. Firewood is the difference between life and ****. Your father is a brute of a man, a full six inches taller than yourself with hands the size of hams and arms that probably measure 18 inches around. His rough build and near Neanderthal appearance belies the fact that he is one of the wealthiest men in the village, being the postmaster.

“Not complaining about the load Grischa?” He looks back over his shoulder at you with the fierce grin that often graces his bestial countenance.

Although the load is rather painfully heavy you plaster on a smile of your own. “No Papa.”

“You’re a good son.”

Black.

The walls of the Monastery make everything inside appear black. Brother Makary says that this is to help clear the mind to make a better connection to God, but you have your doubts. You’ve witnessed some of the monks sneaking about and buggering each other. Disgraceful. You don’t think you’ll stay here long, even though Brother Makary is pretty amazing in his own right. A giant among men as much spiritually as physically he stands a full head taller than your own 6’3” and probably doubles your 187 pounds. Still he, with the body of some ancient conquering _boyar, _is the most humble man you have ever met, wearing heavy chains upon himself to remind him of the weight of the sins of the world.

And that’s when you see Her. The Mother. The Virgin. She is a thing of beauty, enthroned in a radiant light that must shine from the very face of God on high. She reaches out to you, a set of rosary beads in her hand, and placing them in yours with her cool delicate fingers, whispers to you. “Go and do right in my name.”

Stunned by the experience of encountering the Mother of God first hand, you can only reply, “Yes Mother.”

“You’re a good boy.”

Grey.

Sankt Peterburg is grey. You have arrived at the summons of the Emperor’s family to heal a sick child. You know that through the power granted you through your connection to the divine you can do this. The boy, the Crown Prince, is afflicted by the bleeding sickness so common to those of royal blood. Your connection to the Father, forged by the Virgin’s prayer beads, has drawn many to you. Your followers are numerous and their ranks swell more every day. Women throw themselves at you. You have thus far managed to remain chaste, but temptation grows ever stronger. The Black Princesses themselves have wooed you, and though they are beautiful, you remain faithful to Praskovya. She may be aging, but she has given you three beautiful children. You think that they would be amazed by the capitol.