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There is very little to tell of the man named Ezekiel. Few records mention him at all, and those, almost exclusively in the Oathlands -- yet those that know him, would never think such. Perhaps its another fellow with a similar name? Perhaps he's a hidden identity, perhaps a host of other things. He makes his way in the world mostly as a teller of tales and occasional troubadour, yet, he's also some talents with dueling, or at least, that's what is said. He's served from time to time as a Champion for those with a need for such things, prepared as well as he might be for such things.

Long black hair falls to shoulder length, moving in a curtain of midnight when he turns his head. It is rare that there is not an errant lock falling across his features. Full lips flutter between salaciousness and bemusement, though, its equally inclined towards a sardonic smirk; whatever the cant, it is always expressive. His pale, unblemished skin holds no sign of scar or freckle, at least, not on his face. With his beardlessness, he appears relatively youthful in demeanor. Without too much in the way of height, the man can occasionally seem almost waifish, his build given muchly towards a slenderness. Yet, a careful observer would note something more wiry than at first glass, skin taut against his frame like leather across a drum, a body of whipcord and steel. Perhaps unfairly, he has long black lashes. Often, they are darkened with soot.

In a simple pass, Ezekiel is a genial fellow. He is rather phlegmatic, offering little more than a smile, without much of a temper. It is rare that he is anything more than convivial. Footloose and fancy free, he is more than pleased to tell a story, or pass off a tale. Of course, he's lusty and a bit of a drunkard, but he rarely lets such things overwhelm his common sense.