Silas looks like a man carved from a piece of salt-bleached driftwood. His skin is deeply lined and dark from decades of sea glare, smelling faintly of cheap rum and stale brine. His most jarring feature is his left hand, which is replaced by a crude but functional prosthetic of soot-blackened iron that clanks heavily against the bar top. He has a rolling gait, as if the floor is always tilting at a ten-degree angle. Surprisingly, he keeps his remaining fingernails immaculately clean, a sharp contrast to his stained apron and the general grime of the port.

Silas is boisterously welcoming to travelers, offering a bone-crushing handshake and a roar of laughter that can be heard three streets over. However, this warmth is a thin veil over a deep-seated paranoia. He is fiercely protective of his regulars but views any newcomer with three or more questions as a potential bounty hunter. He is meticulously organized behind the bar but his personal room is a chaotic nest of old charts and empty bottles. He treats his prosthetic hand with more care than his own health, often seen polishing it with a silk rag.

Formerly the first mate of the privateer vessel Silver Galley, Silas led a violent mutiny fifteen years ago when his captain, Thresher, attempted to sell the crew out to a pirate lord. In the ensuing chaos, Silas lost his hand and escaped with a small fortune in stolen gemstones. He fled to this port, changed his name, and opened a tavern. His quiet retirement was ruined when Cuttle, his former ship's cook who also survived the mutiny, opened a supply shop next door. Cuttle knows Silas's true identity and the two have been engaged in a cold war of petty sabotage ever since.