Silas is a man shaped by salt air and hard labor. His skin is the texture of cured leather, deeply creased around a mouth that rarely smiles. He carries a heavy, iron-bound bullseye lantern that emits a cold, unnatural blue light even in the brightest noon sun. He moves with a rhythmic, heavy limp, his boots clicking rhythmically against the cobbles. His frame is broad and hunched, like an old oak tree bowing to a permanent gale. In a strange contrast to his rough exterior, he is always immaculately clean, and the sharp scent of expensive jasmine perfume follows him through the stench of fish and rot.