A lean, long-limbed tabaxi with tawny fur marked by irregular charcoal stripes, large amber eyes, and a tail that moves with quiet deliberation. Their hands are narrow and dexterous, with darkened, callused fingertips from years of climbing, lock work, and sleeping rough on splintered rooftops. They wear a well-maintained leather jerkin beneath a patched russet cloak, soft boots, and a belt arranged with practical precision. Their most noticeable habit is the moment before they speak, a small intake of breath through the nose as though tasting the air for lies.

Quietly observant and difficult to surprise, Ojọ is generous with food, information, and second chances, but never with trust. They treat every room as a map of exits, cover, and useful surfaces. Around children and other outsiders, their guarded expression softens immediately. Around authority figures, their politeness becomes almost theatrical.

Ojọ was born beneath the market bridges of a crowded river city, where the stalls above provided shade, falling fruit, and an endless education in the habits of careless people. Their first lessons came from other street children, who taught them which watch officers accepted apologies, which shopkeepers counted coins twice, and which rooftops could bear a tabaxi's weight. Ojọ learned to survive by carrying messages, lifting purses only when hunger demanded it, and opening locked doors for those who promised not to ask questions. The promises were rarely kept, but the locks were always honest.