Fisher is a broad, solidly built human man who takes up more room than he seems to notice, standing close enough that strangers often have to step around him. He wears combat boots, cargo pants, a sleeveless shirt, and a fisherman's vest with one pocket worn thin and shiny from the constant rub of a small, battered container of worms. Old battle scars cross his arms and torso, and flogging scars stripe his back. Tally marks cover one arm; he has worked out that they record his age. A snake tattoo rests on his back left shoulder blade, unseen by him.

Blunt, restless, and oddly patient around water. Fisher makes quick decisions and dislikes being ordered about, but he can spend hours watching a line drift without a word. He has a soldier's reflex to put himself between trouble and whoever happens to be nearby, though he denies that this means anything.

Fisher woke on a small boat in the middle of a broad, quiet river, with a fishing rod in his hands and a container holding a hundred worms. He remembered nothing before that moment. The fish never swallowed the bait, but they always bit, tugging the line with patient, uncanny insistence. He did not eat his catch. He told himself he simply was not hungry. After what he reckoned was a month, both rods broke, one after the other. With no reason to stay on the water, he stepped ashore and began walking.