Silas is a towering old man who looks carved from weathered oak and old battlefields. His skin is thick, cracked, and sun-darkened like cured leather, with ropey scars disappearing beneath a web of indigo tattoos that crawl over his chest, throat, forearms, and the backs of his hands. The tattoos are not merely decorative; they pulse faintly like banked coals when his temper rises. He moves with a heavy, economical stride, never wasting a step, and when he stops he seems to lock into place like a gate bar sliding home. His snow white beard is braided with copper rings, ash, and tiny beads of black glass. The unexpected detail is his careful, almost delicate hands, which are scarred but steady enough to thread a needle through a grain sack without disturbing the weave. He always smells faintly of pipe smoke, iron filings, and clove oil.