Fisher wears scuffed combat boots, a faded fisherman's vest over a sleeveless shirt, and cargo pants. His weather-browned skin is dry and salt-rough, and his broad, callused hands are nicked from years of work with weapons and fishing tackle. Old battle scars cross his arms and torso; parallel flogging scars mark his back. Tally marks run up one arm, and an unremembered snake tattoo lies on his left shoulder blade.

Restless and blunt, Fisher enjoys a new road more than a safe plan. He can be unexpectedly gentle with small creatures, but distrusts anyone who speaks as if obedience were a virtue.

Fisher woke on a small boat drifting across a broad, quiet river with one fishing rod in his hands, another beside him, and a container holding a hundred worms. He remembered neither his name nor how he came to be there. The fish took the worms readily, but Fisher never ate his catch. He could not say why. He counted days by the changing light and the worms by the handful, until what he guessed was a month had passed and both rods broke. With nothing left to fish with, he stepped ashore and walked away from the water. The scars on his body suggest he was a soldier, and the flogging marks suggest someone once had power over him. His hands know how to hold a weapon, keep a watch, and obey a shouted command, even when his mind cannot supply the memory behind those habits. He calls himself Fisher because it was the only name that came to him. He has started following roads and taking odd work, hoping that the next place will feel familiar. He does not know he is dead, or that the river was no ordinary stretch of water.