Silas is a man who looks as though he might be blown away by a stiff breeze. He is skeletal in frame with skin that has become permanently pale from decades of inhaling grain dust. His movements are jagged and sudden, characterized by a constant, bird-like tilting of the head as if listening for a sound just out of range. A surprising contrast to his disheveled, flour-caked state is a heavy, polished silver whistle he wears on a fine silk cord around his neck. His hands are perpetually shaking, yet they are calloused and strong from years of hauling heavy sacks. When he walks, he tends to hug the walls, looking upward at the sky with genuine dread.

Silas is a study in anxious efficiency. He is meticulously precise with his measurements and will offer a fair price to even his worst enemies, yet he treats his own siblings with cold suspicion, fearing they want to steal his mill. He is a man trapped between his duty to the village and a paralyzing fear of the earth beneath his feet. While he is a chatterbox in the safety of 'The Miller's Rest' tavern, he becomes a silent, shivering wreck once the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

Silas inherited the Greenvale windmill after his father vanished during a freak windless storm twenty years ago. The village assumes the old man simply walked off, but Silas knows better. On his first night as head miller, he found a pulsing, violet stone caught in the grinding gears. Thinking it a blessing, he hid it beneath the floorboards. Since then, the 'noises' have grown from soft scratches to rhythmic thumping. He has stayed because the mill is all he has, but every night he spends outside the walls feels like a countdown to something surfacing. He spends his earnings on strong ale and charms to keep the 'skittering' away.