Oduro is a weathered human man with the compact, corded strength of someone who has spent decades hauling himself through reeds and knee-deep water. Sun has tightened the skin around his eyes, while marsh wind has left his hands darkened, cracked, and permanently scented with peat and bow oil. His movements are quiet but never timid; he places each foot as though the earth has already told him where it will hold. A pale scar crosses his throat, thin at the edges and puckered near the center, yet the strangest thing about him is his tenderness. He handles injured birds with the reverence of a priest and speaks to nervous dogs in a soft, almost domestic murmur. He wears a brass button from a child's coat on a cord around his wrist, checking it with his thumb whenever he thinks nobody is looking.