A weather-beaten human man whose body seems assembled from old roads, scar tissue, and stubbornness. Silas has deeply tanned skin crossed by pale knife-thin scars, wind-chapped knuckles, and a left knee that locks with a visible jolt whenever he turns too quickly. His sharp gray eyes rarely settle on a face for long, instead measuring boots, hands, exits, and the dampness of the air. His beard is clipped close except for a stubborn white patch beneath his chin. He moves with a pronounced stiff limp, yet his upper body remains unnervingly balanced, gliding forward like a ship refusing to list. His armor smells of boiled leather, lamp oil, and rain. The unexpected contradiction is his hands, which are broad, scarred, and brutally practical, but capable of delicate repairs to tiny listening instruments that most soldiers would crush by accident. People remember him as a silhouette under a sagging cloak, followed by the soft, rhythmic click of his staff on stone.