Silas looks like a man who has forgotten the feeling of a bed. His skin is the color of pale parchment, mapped with thin, white scars from architectural collapses and trap springs. His messy brown hair is matted with subterranean dust, and a ragged, unkempt beard fails to hide the nervous twitch in his jaw. Despite his exhaustion, his hands move with a frightening, fluid precision that contradicts his trembling shoulders. He smells faintly of ozone and wet copper. He carries a small, pulsating silk bag that he clenches so tightly his knuckles remain permanently white.