Breaking Benjamin; Blow Me AwayAudioslave; Show Me how to LiveDave Grohl&Corey Taylor; From Can to Can'tDisturbed; I'm AliveYet you have not merely walked in their ways or done according to their abominations; but, as if that were too little, you acted more corruptly in all your conduct than they.
BASICS
Name: Ezekiel Aldain Mathis is his name; he'll respond to any one of those three, but most call him Ezekiel.
Nickname: Zeke, Forehead, Grimace, Tinman, and Eskel (which is his first birthname that not many people know about, actually).
Age: Forty-two; it shows
and then some.
Gender: Alpha Male.
Rank: 12.
Race: Human, from Litas.
Motivation: Peace and justice, he supposes? He's not too keen on sounding ignorantly self-righteous, but he is interested in saving as many people as possible on his path to redeem himself. Of course, he's not sure he believes in redemption. What's left is simply this: He's doing what he can, on the path laid down by the organization that seems to be the only one left. But a redeemer doesn't get the option to fuck up anymore. There won't be a third chance. "Be your best. Be strong. Be worthy. Or else don't
be at all." It's a harsh opinion, but he applies it just as stringently to himself as with anyone else.
Defensive/Offensive: Offensive as as a rude person cutting in line at a soup kitchen.
Class: Parasitic; the thankless job. He's still wounded after the last battle, even with time and enhanced healing from Litatio's blood, and currently can't utilize his demoni powers.
APPEARANCE
Eyes: Jaded green, framed by lines and slightly drooping lids. Not droopy enough to fail to look stern I'll tell you that.
Hair: Jet black, very short. He trims his own hair.
Height: 5'11", of formidable height but not a monster.
Weight: 188 lbs stripped nudey, a bit of a monster.
Skin Tone: Dark, all the melanin.
Build: Built--he has a
wider frame than most, but by no means did his body explode like a tank. What you see is from regimented training and proper dietary habits, not so much hormones or mystical blood ceremonies.
Body Markings: Numerous nicks and scratches, and he has a kind of big scar slicing right through one nipple. His face is, surprisingly, mostly unscathed by all but age.
Ezekiel laughed. It did not echo or cause any spectacular ringing in their surroundings; it was merely a noise that etched itself into the present with a blunt edge, much like the drumming of a heartbeat. Perhaps unexpectedly, it was a completely natural sound bereft of rust, as if he laughed everyday of his life. 'It is a sad, sad life you lead, if even I can find more humor in it than you could.'
Gruff and curt, deep and grumpy. There's times when each word is a trial to overcome, and he tries to use them as little and simplistically as possible, then there's times where he needs to lecture and deride. Ezekiel is not a fan of smalltalk (or inactively mucking around in general), and has difficulty forcing himself into the social role of chummy-confidant--so he doesn't. He'll instead mentor you, advise you, talk down at you.
Description: Big, bad, blunt, likely not one's first choice for an opponent, Ezekiel exudes unsociability - from his haughty manner of speech to his expansive, hulking shoulders and frigid demeanor. He's often described as some sort of large wolf or puma; a creature that prowls the night as if invisible, but does not need the shade to utterly maul most it came across. Of course, Ezekiel's not so inconspicuous as that, but that's what the folks say about him. He has prominently square jaws, narrow and stern lips, and eternally downward-arched eyebrows. Tiny pupils and irises, good for intense staring contests. Remarkably good at keeping a straight face, allowing him to be a decent bluffer (or unintentional deadpan comic) when he needs to be. Beautiful teeth, overall great health, as he takes care of himself; albeit not to the point of pampering. Ezekiel is in possession of an unperturbed countenance, though occasionally it's graced with a sneer. He is stagnantly, utterly uninvolved with social dramatics; purposefully ignorant of emotional diseases that so infect those around him. He feels sorry for them, if nothing else.
Hair is something he's begun to lack. His head is still well covered, but it's getting sorta salt and pepper if you look closely.
MENTALITY
Quirks: He can't handle liquor, and hates the stuff. He's not
going to handle liquor. He's going to look down on
you for consuming liquor. That is all. His is a chaste lifestyle... And Ezekiel does have a sense of humor, albeit one that's meant only for his own personal amusement (hence the low volume of his quips). He'll never actually want to make anyone laugh with his blunt, sarcastic little comments--but there will be the rare occasion when he "jokes" in order make you conscious of what you're doing.
Fears: Removal of a sharp object that is penetrating skin. He just hates it. Weird phobia, but it squicks him out. And he doesn't like dead people with closed eyelids. But most importantly, he's he fears losing his memory, and losing himself. Blank spaces (however minuscule) from last night, last month, last few years, are the worst things he can imagine. Thus, he's pretty finicky about keeping track of facts and details.
Likes: Reading, training, battling, meditating, giving and upholding one's word, loyalty, effort, his old warhorse (her name was Tiko), powerful animals in general, theatre (both performed and written plays!), vegetables. The last one comes from his birth mother's penchant of just, just,sprinkling
everything with tomatoes, water spinach, cucumbers, bell peppers, sweet corn, amaranth leaves, beans, eggplants, zucchini... because that was mainly what she had to work with. He got used to the plain, the sour, the spicy and the bitter tastes from an early age.
He used to talk about it to Corliss. Corliss sincerely considered them horror stories.Dislikes: Bar fights, the overly talkative, trying to sleep, people who nap, broken promises, betrayal, imitations, bad acting, being unconscious, liquor, and backing down. (He also has a thing against hypocrisy and impatience, but he's pretty hypocritical about those).
Trust is a liability, and a lack of it is a plague.
Ezekiel is frank, blunt, supremely judging, highly impatient, unemotional, and aloof... yet also idealistic, loyal and independent (granted, he's independent in the a I CAN DO THIS SHIT BY MYSELF way, but is an organization-bible thumper to the fullest degree).
He expects the best of his peers, and nothing at all of most everyone else who fall into the category of pitiful, whimpering, whining weaklings who don't know how to help themselves... who need him. Ladies and gentlemen, meet our savior, the determinator knight in sour armor. People who have seen him act the protector say he acts as though he were possessed by a maliciously benevolent spirit, moving unnaturally and speaking in cryptically
not that he isn't usually cryptic, considering his hatred toward saying more than half a paragraph heroic-sounding one-liners. (Sometimes. Other times he's just a bitch about it and tells you how stupid you are for being in danger. Or he just stares at you unhappily). He'll usually feel a bit disgusted with himself shortly afterwards, when the snarking bastard has regained control (and especially if teased). In summary, the moody creature is possessed by altruism.
Lastly, he's not big on revenge. Not in the usual way. Ezekiel strongly believes in education. People and demoni alike who cross him, obviously, are in desperate need of it, and it's his duty to inform them, to aid them in allowing them to learn their place in the world, the canyon of difference in his standing and theirs. Not a difficult concept for some, though for many demoni, their lesson in inferiority is completed only through death.
EQUIPMENT
Armor: Older and a very light shade of grey, chipped in places , but still functioning as it's very heavyset. And smelly once taken apart! Ezekiel lives in this armor, and sometimes wears it to bed. It's certainly not a thing you wanna steal, tell you what! Because of his arm malformations, he lacks proper gauntlets (they would have to really be custom made and what with the apocalypse ain't nobody got time for that). He also doesn't wear a helmet; he hasn't found one yet that doesn't limit his senses (and the smallest amount of inhibition here will make him so goshdarn angry).
Casual Clothing: Plain padded cotton shirts, greens and whites, and dark pants. He's worn more formal doublets before, but lacks the incentive and occasion to don them again. Sometimes he'll still be wearing chainmail, but then he's not often caught in casual clothing to begin with.
Carried Items: He's not a man of jewlry and accessories, but he does have a simple emerald ring, given to him by his unbiological parental unit, Rosalyn. Every time he left the front door, she tugs one of her rings off her finger and has him promise that he will give it back. For him, his retaining of the ring symbolizes his failure and lack of perfection, and serves as a reminder that not all words can be kept or should be given.
Main Weapon:- Name: Normally his mutated arm, but currently Knight Slayer.
- Type: One-handed sword.
- Made of: Ebony and tempered steel.
- Length: 'Bout the length of an arm.
- Weight: Heftier than many, but perfectly manageable for Ezekiel.
- Description/Info: It's an old blade from his "mortal" days, wrapped in fine cloth and cared for until the day he had it delivered to him from Litas headquarters (alongside two of his favorite books), shortly before they left for Corcillium.
It's slain fewer than he has post-recruition, but is still formidable. He's practiced with it most every night since his injury, and it's less unwieldy by the second.
COMBATIVENESS
Natural Talents:
- Bastard's strong. Half a tank's charging strength, but compared to a normal person he has insanely dominating determination, allowing great adrenaline bursts. Doesn't help that he takes very good care of himself, and is quite healthy. At his physical peak. Bathes every other day and everything.
- You act like he's dumb bloodthirsty muscle and I act like he's dumb bloodthirsty muscle, but his mental prowess is not to be underestimated. He's a quick thinker... though not often venturing outside the box, he's always been quick to pick up on theories and faulty logic unless you're talking too fast (or in another language), in which case SLOW THE HELL DOWN. His mind is as important to maintain as his body, he'll say, so he works on both of them--sometimes at the same time. A couple of people may have seen him doing push-ups over a book. Forehead sweat getting all over the pages, ohhh yes. He is, however, not a tactical machine, relying mainly on spur-of-the-moment reflexes when in actual combat. He has good memory, especially with faces and lists.
Skills:
- To accompany the brain power, he's very well read. It's not something you'll ever know until he mumbles some tidbit of information, because he's not one to boast about it, but he's very good with history, fables, and philosophical theories. And nursery rhymes, but those come up less. So he's a big fat slimy bookworm, this one. However, that isn't to say he's always able to apply his knowledge--knowing what insults a certain culture in the distant past doesn't mean he won't absentmindedly, tactlessly refer to it in the present.
- And swordplay, I suppose. Thicker swords though, the kind of swords that can suffice as shields, too. Give him a rapier and he'll throw it back at you (which could have very bad consequences) and try to fight with his fists (also potentially very bad). Give him a broadsword though, or at least a regular one as wide as the palm of his hand (and he has big hands)... good luck getting him dead in less than two days. After becoming a Parasitic redeemer, this skill as become a bit rusty, but he's been given some time to practice...
- Good listener: ... Really! Not in the sense of a being a comforting shoulder to cry on, but in the sense of retaining details in a longwinded conversation. He'll have all the important information memorized and analyzed, ready to bring up at a moment's notice.
Weaknesses:
- He's no longer easily angered or hotblooded, but he can be provoked into going all in, all too soon. Broke his arm last chapter because of this! You can't just smack your ass at him and say "nah, nah," for this to work. Kicking, capturing, or killing his teammates, a civilian or otherwise oblivious individual is the easiest way to crawl under his skin, but there are certainly other ways.
- Susceptibility to drugs. Despite being built like an elephant, he doesn't have the hardiness of one in this regard. Ezekiel lacks physical tolerance for drugs and alcohol, because (and therefore) he avoids them avidly. These things cause his body and mind to go slow into inaction, and when he's inactive, the parasitic pain seems far stronger than he is usually able to perceive it. It'll take him at least a full day or more to muster up enough strength to start mentally "countering" and behaving normally again, and that's not even adding in the time it takes for the substances to wear off. While the drug is taking effect and wearing off, there will be screaming and convulsions and very disturbing things.
- Being independent, he caaaannot stand relying on others to do something that is important to him. This is a good thing only to an extent: Trust is not a necessity, it is a burden. He hates owing favors, mostly because favors were a huge deal in his house growing up (if someone does something for you, you do your damnedest to pay them back; which he damn well will, however crabbily). He'll often try to do as many things as he can by his lonesome, never asking for aid, and doing his best to reject actively working together with others on a fair and equal level. Barking orders at them (and surprisingly, being barked at, too) is fine.
He won't trust you as a human being, but he'll trust you to have specific traits, if he knows you well enough. (For example, give him and Lucas several years working together, and he will trust Lucas to be an idiot). If it's not because he looks down on you, then it's because it's simply how he is. Even as a child living with his parents, he sewed his own torn clothes and sometimes brought back his own food (imagine the surprise of his adoptive parents, haha). Mind, he wasn't necessarily great at either one, at the time, but he insisted on doing things for himself nonetheless. Rosalyn was always having to undo his stitchings and do it for him again. To get her to stop, he learned her ways so he could continue taking care of himself.
- He's not too hampered by speed and reaction times, but he sure is physically inflexible! Fast turns and turns in general are... not his thing, due to the combination of his weight, size, and tendency of having stiff postures. I probably will forget this weakness though, so feel free to be helpful and remind me about it.
Demoni Powers: His malformed arm is of the crystallized texture common to what few parasitics there are. Generally a blade will extend and retract from the backside of his wrist, and is able to change in length and shape. Ezekiel pushed himself past his known limit by bursting the heinous blade into multiple branching shards through Morbus's body, and was severely wounded when the main "root" was broken.
After consuming Litatio's blood, he's found the constant pain that comes with being a parasitic has subsided somewhat; slumber comes to him easier when he's forgotten the trauma of being unconscious. He's not certain what other changes are taking place within him what with the injury, but at this rate, perhaps he'll find out sooner than he expects.
HISTORY
Old Life- Martial Status: I'm not sure he's interested in this sort of thing at all, but he's not above being charmed. It's just.... a challenge worthy of heroes and of nightmares.
- Family:
They drowned in a flood when he was nine. He most remembers his mother, Dana, who had wild hair and enjoyed spooking the neighbor's children. She told him the best stories, and he writes them down from memory in his free time.
Here I Am.
His adoptive mother, though he's never introduced her as such. This woman adored him, and while she worried about him constantly, she was beyond tolerant of his unusual thoughts and habits. A portly and doting homemaker, she enjoyed cooking for her family and buying rugs. She had a bad habit of making people promise the impossible in order to ease her concerns.
Mama.
A prominant member of Litas's Legionnaires, and Rosalyn's loving husband. Always smiling and willing to crack a joke, but very capable of handling troublesome situations. He was an advocate of history and culture, and often had his nose in a book in his free time. He and Ezekiel never bonded too terribly closely, but they were not on bad terms. That is, perhaps, until Ezekiel became a Redeemer... but they haven't seen each other since before that point.
What a Shame.
Always the taller one since they were children, this was the boy Ezekiel grew up with. They did not start off as friends, but they came to be kindred spirits like no other (although, if they were in trouble, it was always Corliss's fault). As a teenager he joined a scouting unit outside the walls, dragging Ezekiel with him. Together they rose in rank, until Ezekiel was leiutenant and Corliss a captain just below him.
You Found Me.
The youngest member of the Aldain family, Nathaniel's aspirations included growing up to be exactly like Corliss. He's quite a bit too awkward to pull of the boyish charm part, but he was very good at following the two older boys everywhere they went. Many young recruits remind Ezekiel of Nathaniel, and he grants them about the same condescending mentoring, and the same faintest flicker of fondness.
Too Late.
- History:
Not all that long ago, turf wars reigned within Litas. How much of a surprise could it be, seeing it was the destination point for criminals exiled from their own nations? With the flow of immigrants came an increase in the variety of goods and trades, for better or for worse.
It was frowned upon for the authorities to involve themselves. A Legionnaire's duties mainly include breaking up brawls, enforcing the curfew, maintaining good physical health, making fun of elves, and keeping an eye out for straying children. Some did involve themselves in the darker end of the market, and tried little to hide it. Two boys were unhappy with this routine, and complained of wanting more. Scouting and camping outside the towering walls was just satisfying enough, but when they were elevated in rank and were to set up tents within the city limits, things became dull.
A wealthy merchant, feeling contempt towards the inactivity, as well as wishing to rise into the imaginary position of councilman, saw that his pleas for immediate action toward the Legionnaire general fell on deaf ears. He looked for younger blood: the general's adoptive sons. The operation was simple: raid a bar where the nasty conducted business with the nastier, and arrest them all on grounds of corruption.
Corliss seized the opportunity, but things went sour.
New Life- Reason for Becoming a Redeemer: He wasn't nearly dead, but he may as well be. Ezekiel felt no reason to return home, and sought only a new purpose so that he might forget his old one.
- The Changing:
It was a knife, with a curved and serrated blade, that flew from the hand of a fellow Legionnaire and planted itself in his Corliss's throat.
As it turned out, the general knew what he was doing. He set Legionnaires to menial, time-consuming tasks to gradually weed out the bad seed, and determine who could truly be trusted with their proud mantle.
War was waged that night, and by morning, a squadron of bodies were spilled out of the tavern, and were dragged further out as a meal for fish and wolves. Both sides received severe injuries.
Wherever it was Ezekiel ended up, he breathed alone.
All he could recall was the liquid touching his tongue. He held tightly onto the memory though he could not say why; rolling it over and over in the back of his mind as he traversed a new world bereft of a sun's light, yet full to the brim with color and of strangers. They would greet him with silent bafflement, stare at him as they passed, swimming around him and through him like ethereal specters. It was... a place of trade, perhaps, to have so many people? Every face was
vastly different, some... strange. An old man with giant, white gritting teeth with small, wrinkled eyes. A darker woman with her chin practically fused to her neck, who twitched furiously. Each person (he was positive they were people) clearly had a destination, and they all looked at him skeptically on their way there. They went this way and that, but each was gone in short order only to be replaced by another.
He could find nothing to tell him where he was. No sculptures, buildings or landmarks; no clues--not that he would have had anything to refer to other than the recollection--the sensation of a vial's contents that had long passed. Here was an expanse of land he was lost in, here were its denizens. There was nothing more. When he finally tried to speak to a... to one of the numerous locals, she squirmed and shuddered, holding her head and cowering until he left her alone. He tried approaching a different one more gently, but the man bolted, blabbering incoherently in some foreign tongue, but so quietly that Ezekiel could not discern the words or inflections.
How could nothing be familiar to him? Nothing to go off of, nothing to latch onto. He was surrounded by many, yet he may as well have been thrown into an empty wood. Desperation wracked his brain, but he would not show it. This was a trial and no more. He was uncertain as to how he knew, but he was certain....
When Ezekiel's feet at last stopped moving, stopped trying to find a foothold in this strange land, there was a great shatter. His very sight of the world seemed to be split into sharp fragments, and everything began to fall. Bloodcurdling howls filled his ears. The people around him clutched their eye sockets, ripping their mouths open as wide as they possibly could to release their voices, their very souls, in hopes of escaping their plummeting bodies. They took
what little color the world had with them, so that all was black and he could not see.
Suddenly he was forced against a surface--he could feel the solid stone mercilessly meeting his spine, hear the crunch of his bones. He could not say what pushed him. A pair of hands? Some sort of weapon?
He could not see. Neither could he see the pair of wicked things that plunged themselves through both his lungs. He could feel liquid on his lips the vial the ceremony Redeemers the vial battlefield rescued substance touching my tongue this is a trial and no more this is a trial and no more
dripping
from
his
chin
All that remained was the struggling of air that tried to leave his throat, as he choked on his own bubbling blood seeping between his teeth. They must have been blades, as they pierced him like a needle stabbing through cloth. They were pinning him here.
As he weakly tried to take hold of the hilt, he remembered. He'd seen a picture that resembled this, the blades were positioned just so--They would string a man up, hoisting him up high, on display for all to see. It was a punishment that would stick with him even after his last breath left him. They would pin him down in two places with his own weapons--under the shoulders and through the chest, one on each side. The children in his settlement would do this to the dolls they deemed villainous in their made up tales.
It was an act reserved for traitors, they who have committed the most vile of sins.
Ezekiel could feel himself slipping. Gravity had seized his ankles and wrenched downwards, and the blades could only cut him more. In agony, he could only knock his head back and screw his eyes shut. All the while, he could hear Rosalyn's crying, increasingly prevalent. It had been there all along; patiently waiting for him to notice, inattentive bastard that he was. He knew it was her--she would always try to stifle any sounds, and had a distinctive sniff and sucking of breath that broke his heart. And he could do nothing.
"You killed him."
The observation was simple enough.
It was an assessment, a plain fact, that came from a child standing before his crumpled body.
He might have tried to protest, though he was sure no sound emerged.
He could barely find the strength to close his eyes.
"And you're LYING!"
Youthful laughter rang out, reflecting off the walls and returning to its source. "You little bitch! You stole him from me, murdered him in cold blood, and you would LIE TO ME about it?! You would dare to run from my brother's corpse before it grows cold! YOU RAN!"
Then finally, in a serrated echo much like the blade that killed his friend: "You do not deserve redemption!"
When his voice at last found his body, it found something changed. He did not wake from the nightmare fully for days, but screamed even in that state.
- Ascending:
It was a glimmer of light through barely parted curtains, blinking at him with each wistful movement of the fabric, that woke Ezekiel at a proper hour one morning. It was, he dimly realized, the lack of light that lulled him to sleep at the proper hour on the previous night. He was impressed. It had only been a few days since the incident, his loss and failure in battle, and he'd expected to be too traumatized to lose consciousness again for weeks. And yet here he was, perfectly horizontal, half-expecting to find a woman beside him with how well he rested.
He almost didn't feel inclined to rise.
As was his routine when he didn't suffer from insomnia, Ezekiel began checking off the events of the days previous. It wasn't so long ago that they were gathered together about a fire, not much different from an informal induction, passing the skin of blood to whoever was the next most daring. Lucas Truesdale, surprisingly, stepped forward first, in spite.... no, because of Amaryllis's warning that it could be no different from the Demoni blood, in that they did not know if it had a chance of going awry and producing an abomination. In that regard, Ezekiel should have gone first due to his higher resistance to the dark call, to flesh corruption; but he hesitated, and the unkempt boy did not.
... He took his turn soon after that, and almost immediately within him spread a slow-boiling warmth, from his tongue to his chest: Forgiveness. Overwhelming forgiveness, echoing words that insisted to err was human, but he had already surpassed a class so mundane. What a haughty way of thinking, he cynically mused, as he was sure the reverberations were merely his own. Ezekiel looked around knowingly; it was a hallucination, no different than before. The familiar archway under which he stood, the dark oak floor, the slightly ajar door with the gilded lion crest knob.
The family that sat within, faces painfully familiar to him, patiently passing time in conversation at the table covered by the ecru paisley cloth.
The largest man was almost a giant in size, large form complimented with a sharp auburn beard and garments befitting a military lord. He guffawed a lot, smacked his knee, and would have thrown his bear arms over those he loved so much should he not get yelled at for doing so during dinner.
The youngest spoke quickly, excitably, and was happier than Ezekiel had ever seen him. His deep admiration for the older members of his family shone through both his looks and mannerisms. He was doing a poor job of growing out his facial hair to match his uncle, but perfectly imitated his brother's curling sideburns. He was no longer the screaming child from an old dream that felt so far away.
The only woman within the room busied herself setting down the last aromatic plate, flitting her fingers underneath the centerpiece geranium and daffodils to perk them up, and then informed him that he was not a minute too early and not a minute too late. As expected. He realized how dwarfed she looked amid her husband and three boys, and remembered how she would complain of everyone asking what in the World she fed her household. Her fingers were adorned with rings--a complete set, missing none.
And Corliss, sitting next to him, simply beamed absentmindedly at nothing in particular.
He raised his hand, examining the emerald ring on his forefinger that was absent from his dream, and was surprised to find a second absence. Pulling up his sleeve, he notes short nails, thick knuckles, wide palms, sparse hair, splattered birthmarks, softly stretched flesh overlapping veins and bone...
That second growth, that hindrance on his right arm was almost no longer there, leaving little more than a dried gash where it used to be. With each moment's stare it felt more normal, the usually acute pain throughout his body dulling into a constant throb, more akin to a beating heart.
Ezekiel might have smiled.
- Opinions:
"Impossible?" What does that even mean? Ezekiel is not dismayed by the mission at hand, but he's not particularly excited, either. He's just doing another job, after all.... even if it might be his last. Depending on the temperaments of his allies, he may be more fun to have around, or moodier than usual. He CAN get on with people, believe it or not, so long as they're patient enough to "get" him.
And as mentioned briefly, he highly respects the Redeemers, and will stand up for the organization's rules and teachings sooner than most would.
Not all sticks are wielded by shepherds, Fallon. Be wary of who you follow.
- Relations:
She found him when he was alone, and pulled him further into darkness. For that, Ezekiel was never ungrateful. She gave him a different route, an escape so that he might drown himself in his new duties and think of nothing else.
The woman herself is a marvel, and once he began looking up to her as his superior, he never quite stopped. That she maintained herself so well after all these years was the trait he admired most, but now that her composure is slipping, Ezekiel couldn't help but feel... something. He wasn't sure quite how to define it yet.
Not Strong Enough.
Heinous bastard kept trying to spike Ezekiel's drinks. Our parasitic redeemer still hasn't quite forgiven him, even though Wes now lies several feet deep. In part, Ezekiel hasn't quite forgiven him for dying, either.
Shadow on the Sun.
Though disappointed in how keenly the elf has taken to liquor (reminds Ezekiel of someone foul, for one), Fallon has earned unspoken praise on more than one occasion. They met soon after Fallon was recruited, and while there was a bit of tension due to Ezekiel's history as a legionnaire... but after a time, they found solace in their mutual grouchiness and keenness to move forward: something Amaryllis could not quite provide.
Iridescent.
He doesn't approve of her lifestyle, her decision-making, and to a degree still finds her untrustworthy... but he isn't unhappy that she's returned to them. Thankfully she seems to have turned down that swaggering for the time being. Ezekiel wonders, though, if he shouldn't feel perturbed by this alteration in personality.
You's Still a Ho Tho.
He respects Snow, and trusts her judgement. Neither of them are too keen on conversation though, which makes any exchange between them rather interesting. If Ezekiel were one to believe in friendships, he might count her as a fair applicant.
Battle Born.
This girl has room to grow... to maybe not in the physical sense. Of all his teammates, Manon is the one Ezekiel feels he has enough patience, truly enough patience, to mentor for a time. She is perhaps too idealistic, however, and he can predict a hardening in her character not too far in the future. Whether that will be good for her or not is a separate matter entirely.
Family Tree
Something of a rival, at times, though it seemed rather one sided--the parasitic, surprisingly, proved to be very patient with his comrade. Ezekiel and Gray had very little, yet a lot in common all at once. It was an odd thing when they agreed on a matter.
Jars.
He simply doesn't see much potential in the boy, and thinks he takes things too personally. He's managed to garner a bit of respect from Ezekiel over time, but that doesn't mean Ezekiel has to like him and his disgusting jokes.
Wasteland.
- Abomination Experiences:
As a parasitic, he's never had the pleasure of an almost-turn. He has, however, killed countless, as he does not wait his turn to strike them down. They're no longer human. There's never been a question, never a doubt in his mind to the contrary...
Until Amaryllis. Always, always it goes until Amaryllis, even something so tragic. Suddenly he's hesitating, thinking perhaps several moments later, the next abomination he meets might come back, and he'll truly be impaling a former comrade. No, a current comrade. His alienness to the feeling of turning has become unsettling, and for once he wishes for empathy.
