He watched the man approach and regarded him with the eyes of his father. There was more of Gabriel in the dust-colored boy then in Ezekiel when it came to size, but the Aquila had taken Gabriel’s color’s—if only a shade truer, a shade brighter. Even this felt like a lie. It was he who should have worn the darker coat, he who should have been given colors that spoke of shade and deceit. Above all others, Ezekiel was a man with a liar’s tongue and the skill and violence to back it up. Aggression leaked through his body in subtle motions and more directly in the stiffness in his shoulders and stance. This was less apparent now, as he sat, but he believed that the scout would read him just as easily as Ezekiel read all others.
One hand, a red close to that of clay earth, fell to his side. Unceremoniously he hurled a broken rosary towards his younger kin. “Tell me,” he began, and paused as if considering his words. “What sort of men come carrying the sign of God?” It was not intended as a riddle, but he needed someone else to speak it aloud.
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