Silas is a man whittled down to the bone by time and mountain air. His frame is alarmingly thin, resembling a winter branch wrapped in sun-bleached denim. His eyes are his most striking feature, two orbs of solid milk-white cataracts that seem to track movement despite his blindness. His skin is like cracked parchment, smelling faintly of damp soil and sour mash. He moves with a rhythmic, jerky precision, never stumbling as he navigates the porch of the Red Gourd. Contradictory to his frail frame, his hands are massive and calloused, possessing a strength that suggests he could snap a shovel handle if provoked. He carries an aura of ancient, cold stone even on the hottest July afternoon.