Ezekiel

No, no, the light is black, and you reek of nonsense. I won't have it. She will, though. I don't even want to imagine what you've done so far, and by rights the icebox should be empty now. By now. Your clockwork suggestions don't mean anything ...

He had the most peculiar callouses on his right hand.

Somewhere I'll find a haystack, and inside will be the book, the book I don't need, haha, no! The book you need. I won't drop what I'm doing for you, my duties are frabjous and too unwarranted for the likes of you. Stop complaining. I'll have none of it.

He had short black hair and yellow eyes, and a scarred eyelid from when he'd fallen off a horse as a child. His sight was bad in that eye, but he got by.

It was coming. It felt like things were becoming strange, unfriendly and new. Ezekiel clutched to his charcoal stick for dear life.

What I'll do is, I'll make signs with clay. I'll put feathers in my hair and then no one will deny how clever you are! Isn't that good?

It wouldn't stay in his hand. The black pencil clattered to the floor, much to his distress. Much to his distress. His fingers had been taken away from him. Careful, careful as he could, he sank down to lean against the wall, and smeared some of the hundreds of words scrawled there across his shirt. Charcoal was by no means permanent. He'd have to write it all again.

All again.
Everything felt like gray.