A weathered human man in combat boots, cargo pants, a fisherman's vest, and a sleeveless shirt. His arms and torso bear the practical scars of battle, along with unmistakable flogging scars. Tally marks run up one arm, though he only recently worked out that they count to 65. A snake is tattooed over his left shoulder blade, unseen by him. He waits with his weight on the balls of his feet, as though braced against a moving deck. When he eats, his jaw works slowly and his lips barely part, showing blunt, tightly set teeth; he finds food oddly uninteresting.

Quietly blunt and hard to hurry, Fisher is more comfortable with a task than a conversation. He can be unexpectedly generous with practical help, but dislikes being told what to do and will wander off rather than explain why.

Fisher woke on a small boat with one fishing rod in hand, another rod beside him, and a container holding a hundred worms. He could remember no battle, no home, and no reason to be there. For what he guessed was a month, he cast into the river. The fish never ate the worms, but they bit all the same. He never ate the fish. Hunger never came, and the catch seemed to mean nothing beyond the tug on the line. When both rods finally broke, Fisher left the river and found that the scars on his arms and body belonged to a soldier's life he could not recall. The flogging marks suggested punishment, but not what he had done to earn it. He counted the marks tattooed on his arm and decided they must be his age: sixty-five. He still does not know he is dead, or that the water he left belongs to an afterlife. He carries himself like a veteran, keeps watch without meaning to, and follows roads as if some lost order might still be waiting at the end.