Silas is a man of significant bulk, his frame occupying more space than the doorways of his own properties usually allow. He moves with a slow, deliberate waddle that somehow suggests gravitational dominance rather than clumsiness. His face is wide and often glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration, even in the dead of winter. He wears a stained felt fedora tilted forward to shadow his eyes and a heavy, floor-length black leather jacket that smells faintly of cedarwood and stale grease. Contradicting his disheveled, oily skin, he possesses remarkably delicate, slender fingers with perfectly manicured, translucent nails.