Want to friend Silas? You need to log in or join our community, first! It's fast, free and easy.

Want to tell the world what you love about Silas? You need to log in or join our community, first! It's fast, free and easy.

ↂↂↂ


  • f3997071b27c13fd5e65197426e5aaad66006298.pngc4eefadb6498609d754bc021c48605eb1de5479a.pngcf858cdd0b6a1468fb17940607deeecb93e7c6d0.png



  • FULL NAME
    Silent-Rose Aberdeen
    ≻ Introduces themself as Silas and never as their given name.


    GENDER
    Gender non-conforming.
    ≻ Uses she, he, and they interchangeably.


    AGE
    30
    ≻ They do not appear young or old, per se, but are absolutely an adult.

    SPECIES
    Feline
    ≻ Silas belongs to the Oriental Shorthair breed, a member of the Siamese family of breeds.


    ORIGIN
    Dark, dreary, blood-red and constricting.
    ≻ It spiraled down deep like a corkscrew. The walls were wood slats that dripped, red and thick, and everyone was always lighting and relighting candles, light and relighting...


    OCCUPATION
    Librarian's Assistant
    ≻ Supports the work of librarians by helping with various library operations, including circulation, cataloging, and providing assistance to patrons. Silas often pulls their weight in the Children's Section, as well.


    MARITAL STATUS
    Single, sapphic.
    ≻ big pleading heart eyes emoji...

    PETS
    Several potted monstera and a succulent garden.
    ≻ Prefers the company of soil and leaf.


    HEIGHT
    6'4"
    ≻ Quite tall, with a looming sort of posture.


    BUILD
    Thin, sleek, muscular.
    ≻ It is not evident due to their clothing, but Silas is not only lanky and tall, but a toned individual.

    EYES
    Wide-open peridot.
    ≻ A bright and clear shade of yellow-green that catches the light in a pleasing way.


    FUR
    Pure white
    ≻ Without any visible or difference in color, to all immediate understanding Silas is completely white with no color variance. Between the hairs it is evident that their flesh has a rosy undertone.

    SCENT
    Lilac, ozone, sulfur.
    ≻ Floral soap undernoted by the end of a thunderstorm, a snuffed match.


    VOICE
    Meek, stuttery, silent.
    ≻ When Silas does speak, it is in a chopped-up and jittery way. A shy way. A way that's tremulous and unsure. When they whisper, which is barely audible, they do not stutter. This is all assuming that they even decide to speak at all, for they are prone to nonverbality and lengthy periods of silence.


    CLOTHING
    Please click here.
    ≻ Androgynous office attire with an older flavor. All of their clothes are thrifted or purchased at discount, oftentimes needing to be mended by hand which they do, um, as best as they can. They vary between skirts and slacks, blouses, sweaters and sweater vests, et c., often in shades of brown or muted colors. Nothing vibrant to cause them to overly stand out, but each peace is quietly odd or unique. They also wear gigantic circular brass glasses on an indigo beaded chain.

    JEWELRY
    Scarce, if any, and it seems to be looking at you.
    ≻ Silas will wear anything given to them and, indeed, seems to possess a couple of simple leather cord bracelets with wooden and painted beads strung on them. Ever present, and most prominent, however, is their lace-edged collar, Eye-bead embedded dead center on the throat.

    PERSONALITY
    Semi-verbal and painfully bookish, Silas is very shy, very stuttery, and very helpful. Silas is a tenderhearted individual possessing varying interests. They love to assist, to make others' days easier, provide information, and share quite generously from their wealth of knowledge. Often prone to infodumping and recommending books on relevant topics as well as sharing anecdotes and trivia. Silas is gentle, patient, and generally quite warm. Humble, softspoken, and caring. Thoughtful.

    Silas is capable of hyperfocus and prone to lengthy research, uses it as a means to escape. When prompted they take extra time to speak and choose their words and are also speech impedimented. When whispering, however, they speak without a stutter. They also do not make very many varying facial expressions and are very still of person, almost as though trained to be this way. They are careful, methodical, and very focused in an almost insectoid way that can be sometimes very off-putting or creepy. Kind of like the way a praying mantis becomes very still and stares a lot before it kills something. Has been described by acquaintances as suddenly lapsing into deep silences that go unbroken for days at a time as though speaking is a weight too much to bear at the time. Likes routine and follows it closely.

    Heartbroken over themself on a bad day, quiet and shy at best. Prone to depressive states and melancholy, self-directed agonies and morbid thinking. Semi-verbal, prone to overwhelm, shaky-quaky and unsteady. Bad at managing stress when it happens in extremes. They would also sacrifice their own stability in order to not disappoint someone. Must follow routines to maintain their fragile neutrality. Anxious. Doesn't like to be touched, bothered, or bullied. Not great at regulating their emotions or reactions to negative stimulus and cries easily. It is quite evident to some, who have been in their same place before, that they are recovering from something. But what?
    LIKES
    ≻ a good, good book
    ≻ green tea
    ≻ plums
    ≻ fancy mice
    ≻ sun naps
    ≻ raw salmon
    ≻ quiet rain
    ≻ monstera
    ≻ hiking
    ≻ routine         		DISLIKES
    ≻ blood
    ≻ loud noises
    ≻ spilled drinks
    ≻ chatter
    ≻ unexpected physical contact
    ≻ thunder
    ≻ canines
    ≻ the sound of a heart beating
    ≻ deviation from routine
  • 82cc3cf1267a86b98ae0261f4fac1d107647d07a.png
    7c0bb7d3b411861ad4fd726cfd2372ee4577a957.png
    b897ae570b7cb89826d4862d0db6eb22c9e7ea16.png
    1673f217349d59b3b6c86ea5199c2488591199c8.png
    e61439a7c79206b8a16bace6a49bdea7ace7df57.png
    29a7b98105dac7374114d6b6e379472b6f63c1e1.png
    32cd607c0f7f7b1d09f7e68f07ca2855f68f53e3.png
    99882cd966ad83002b53190b75ab1d518e1e0423.png
    7d04c9df28eb01e27b6dc5c16898a9ceed7dd16c.png
    a764faeec6fb14594771631f8d5098a29feddf1c.png
    0c6fdf61c19124d055d1ad762b72806adf8ba709.png
    c759ab2aca52b1b1489ac94262e52cfaebe3cf9a.png
    9314e847a1423b7904b42b99a53994ce031c492b.png
    449cbb470906c5f51cb9763eb09fee2be61397d4.png
    5b66ced29034cc0745fb49de8936deb0537a36d6.png
    02f4b745c4635f9d2e8663d1839b30a8f6763b2e.png
    e03ca5dd2b8be3344ae5bb18ad8f9fde6eb81b30.png
  • 3bb52126174b30fe6aeb1f07a342aa0a99ff55c7.png
    Listed below in detail are possessions found upon Silas's person at any given time. They carry a bag and often wear clothing with many pockets, such as coats, cardigans, and pants and skirts with pockets. Their bag is a cross-body messenger-style with internal dividers and several exterior cargo pockets. It is decorated with embroidery and cloth paint as well as pins and patches.

    Nothing held within is lethal nor is it otherwise dangerous. Things are either functional or held on a whim or out of habit. Some of it makes little sense; the feline is guilty of accruing junk for artistic and sentimental reasons.

    They also very freely give these items away, to anyone who seems like they might like or need it, and hold onto things they find that appear to have been lost by someone. Just in case.
    ⦅ ⁜ INVENTORY ⁜ ⦆

    ⦅ ⁜ POCKETS ⁜ ⦆

    ≻ x1 Jade hagstone, rubbed very smooth by a thumb. Used for fidgeting.
    ≻ x? Money, often loose change or small-value. They are poor.
    ≻ x1 Pen, fountain, refillable. Brown barrel, pointed tip. Never leaks.
    ≻ x1 Potted tallow lip-balm, mint flavor. Yum.
    ≻ x1 Lighter, Zippo-style. The metal is etched and decorated with an eye and tendrils and fern leaves. At 56% lighter fluid level.
    ≻ x1 Carabiner, holding a normal amount of keys and a ridiculous amount of keychains
         		⦅ ⁜ COAT ⁜ ⦆

    > x1 Wallet, leather, black, etched with an eye. Holds larger bills and their identification (it's just their library card).
    ≻ x1 Multi-tool, for utility purposes. Shaped like a butterfly knife but holds only small tools like a screwdriver, small blade, picks, corkscrew, et c.
    ≻ x1 Paperback novel, small.
    ≻ x? Loose objects to be used in junk journaling, such as wrappers or stickers or scraps of paper.
    ≻ x? Random varying items they pick up outside that seem to be either lost, waylaid, or obviously loved (small toys, coin purses, wallets, et c.)
    		⦅ ⁜ BAG ⁜ ⦆

    ≻ x3 Various reading books; they also vary in size and weight and can be sometimes cumbersome.
    ≻ x1 Pen case, simple pale linen cloth, full of approx. 12 different pens of varying types and colors
    ≻ x1 Lined notebook, used as a planner for scheduling/daily notation
    ≻ x1 Lined notebook, for written journaling
    ≻ x1 Unlined notebook, for junk journaling
    ≻ x1 Small bag, containing junk journaling materials (literally wrappers and threads, labels and stickers, pieces of newspaper, et c.)
    ≻ x1 Glue, for gluing.

    ⦅ ⁜ ATTIRE ⁜ ⦆

    ≻ Simple, soft, fitted sweaters, generally without pattern.
    ≻ Button-up blouses, with patterns like paisley and swiss dot.
    ≻ Sweater vests.
    ≻ Cardigans with or sans buttons.
    ≻ Long skirts of a sturdy variety; they often do not have much give in the material and are roughspun. Always at least 2 pockets.
    ≻ Trousers that range from pants with many exterior pockets to simple professional slacks, usually corduroy but not every time. Always at least 2 pockets.
    ≻ Generally their footwear is simple with a low ankle. Leather saddle shoes and loafers. Boots only for hiking or the colder months.
    ≻ Ever present is a lace-edged collar with a bead embedded dead center, painted to look like an eye and in such a way that one feels it moves and is observing.

  • Journal

    9da3d11a531437ba4906e38f5e3395b8d56887b8.png



    Moreso a collection of writings rather than a true journal written by Silas themself, though those sorts of scribblings may eventually be found here as well.

    • diamond day May 27th 2025, 3:16 pm

      musical accompaniment


      Tender oak leaves and acorns, a slow warm wind kicking them up into little tornados, little rockslides. Along Silas's path have been little stacks of rocks, too, some flat slices, some delicately pieced together towers of pebbles. To insects and other small things they'd be like skyscrapers. Towers of Babel.

      She keeps her tail tucked close to her body while she walks, thriftstore hiking boots protecting the soft pads of her feet. The skirt swishes silently. It's stiff brown denim and it is loose, too big, tightened with a belt and wrinkled at the waist line from being cinched. Simple sweater, Nordic print and brown and very soft from age and washes.

      It's early spring. This area of the trail hasn't been fully tidied, lots of detritus everywhere. Rocks, thick blankets of leaves, soggy and fat and heavy from recent rain. Pine needles and leaves coagulated into mats because of the decay. All of this litters and muddles the path, thin red trees stretching up to the sky like so many nimble needles, birdsong occasional and sparse.

      On walks in summertime she uses her tapes. Listens to songs, headphones over her big, soft, velvety ears. Listening to Milk and Honey, maybe something else old and crackly and nostalgic and slow, swapping the tapes frequently from her pockets as whim led her to. 'Low simulation' she had heard it described as. For her, it was a balm to the way her insides sometimes felt so tattered... Today, though, some intuition of the heart and soul had told her to listen to the world, and she had reluctantly left it at home on her bedside table.

      So she was hiking this trail, early in the season. More of a walk than a hike but she thought maybe any walk in what she thought of as 'deep nature' was a hike; if it wasn't paved, it was hiking. If one might spot a badger or a fox or get eaten by a mountain lion? Hiking.

      Lost on this train of thought she would realize her feet were moving off the cleared path and onto a winding, thinner path between some trees to her right. A footpath, not one cleared but trodden over so many times through the years that it lay just flat and just wide enough for feet and bodies to slide through, like a singular thread through a shirt.

      Normally, she would never venture off path. She wasn't silly. She was very serious, in fact, about how dangerous that was. But something in her chest was tugging her, some hand on her upper back pushing, something beckoning and urging. Come see me.

      She would look behind her and take note of any landmarks. Funky frogshaped boulder. All right. Down the path and right back and if not, she would end up kitty jerky.

      Silas's thick boots don't crunch as she starts down along the thin footpath, but they do squelch. The moisture does not penetrate, blessedly. The trees are very close to her, close enough to knock into her elbows if she is not careful, doesn't keep them tucked into her waist like a prehistoric creature.

      She thought idly of the giant ground sloth, the megatherium, as she slowly progressed. How it could reach one shaggy arm up, bend a tree like an aforethought elbow, and eat from it. How sometimes she felt that way around shorter folk, too, being tall herself...

      Abruptly she finds that, surrounding her on all sides, are an absolutely oppressive amount of trees. Tucked in close and almost breathing. Nothing in front or behind but the thin path, thin like an exposed fingerbone. Tall spikes of rust color, dark and mushy earth, big pale sky of light. Fear tightens her chest and her breath is crushed in that grip, too, big fist grabbing up from her stomach and trying to climb up. What a mistake. And as she starts to turn, her small pink nose catches the scent of something.

      Salt water.

      If she keeps going, there will be ocean water. But then, what if she is well and truly and fully lost?

      But she's never seen the ocean.

      And it is so close, so close that, when she ventures to let her tongue peek out, she can taste the salt in the air, as though the granules are rolling and dancing across the overwhelming and heady petrichor like glass smashed by a hammer. Into smithereens.

      The thought of the water so close she could hold it in her arms is too strong of a temptation. So she keeps going. Wanders forth with anxiety in her step, on rubbery legs, passing between the trees. Like how she imagines memories get lost, slipping between thoughts, shrinking to a pointed atom that slides like a dust mote between shafts of light.

      The ocean is close now and she knows because she hears it moving. Breathing. Waves connecting with the shore, over and over, like punches. Crashing isn't enough to describe the way her ears hear each droplet hit the earth then recede back home. Snaking in rivulets over--

      Innumerable pebbles. No sand, or at least not visible. The path ends in an opening that reveals a stretch of nothing but billions of damp pebbles in many grey-and-earthen tones. Dead stars. And a massive and neverending expanse of ocean that matches the sky. Pale gray. Frothing with foam as though it has rabies.

      Not a soul in this place. The beach stretches left, and right, and ends at that rusty treeline there, too, squared off in a long rectangle.

      It feels godly and sacred and very old. Ancient. Very big and very small and very cold. Another planet. In this place she feels God acutely everywhere but also feels very alone under the great magnitude of it, the majesty. Alone and very small. Observed by the big Eye.

      She tentatively steps forward, cold wind slowly rolling into her like misty ice. Her legs are still very shaky. She is scared of this place but so intensely curious. Feels undeserving but desires desperately to be familiar.

      "I am just a lamb." She whispers, softly, stepping slowly over the loose pebbles. In some places the foot traffic is evident but she does not step there. Whatever feet they belonged to were respectful of this place because there is no litter to be seen, no leftovers, no human structures or belongings. No boats, no chairs. No bottles or styrofoam or cigarette butt's. Just little depressions from footpaws and boots and even then she cannot make out the precise shapes.

      Terrified she makes her way across to the water. Kneels slowly. Feels the damp slowly soak into her skirt and touch the fur of her knees. Her glasses get lightly misted by the salt water and she just looks, mouth open and tasting the air.

      Silas sits this way, mind mostly empty, watching. Hypnotized by the swell. Enchanted by the flow, the crash, the noise. It is so much all at once that, with a shuddering and raw gasp, she begins to cry. Feels her heart open like a wardrobe and gush blood like a rotten fountain, pulsing in heavy, stuttery beats. The catharsis and release of it pulls a soft scream from the pit of her stomach and it racks her lithe, long form. A ribbon whipping in a hard wind. Making sound that isn't heard over the rush.

      Whispering fervently, stream of consciousness, whatever word crawls out from between her lips. Begging and questioning and cursing. Grabs a few fistfuls of pebbles and squeezes them. Claws at the ground and feels her handpads ache with cold. It grounds her, the earthly feeling. That and her glasses slipping down and off of her long nose and plopping with a sharp clatter onto the pebbles.

      It renders the view muddly and blurry like a late Monet and she quickly retrieves them and wipes them on any dry fabric of her clothing that she can find. Sleeve. Puts them back on. No scratches.

      She doesn't cry anymore. Sits back with her feet under her bottom and watches, again, this time without as much fear.

      Almost like friends.

      --

      The way back is fine. She finds it fine. Treads the path quickly, though, not wanting the wasteland-aloneliness feeling to be bearing down on her shoulders anymore. Wants to get in her car and go home and make tea with honey and climb in bed and read. Get warm. Sleep. Get up and go get soup and baguette later. Have space to reflect on what just happened and wonder if it was good or not.

      Her little hatchback is green and old and she loves it. She calls her Ivy. Silas's keys are on a dinged up carabiner hanging from her belt and she unlocks the car, sits in, and locks the door immediately. It smells good inside, like lilac and old seats and coffee. French vanilla and caramel.

      "Thank you." She mumbles, in her whispery voice, and lays her head back against the headrest. Starts to close her big, clear eyes, just for a moment.

      Between the slits of her lids she sees lightning spider across the sky in a great explosion of tributaries, electric veins, so bright it turns the darkling day into full sun. It flashes this way, flickering and rolling in ways for what she guesses is maybe three seconds, before fading and being immediately suffixed by probably the loudest thunder she's ever heard in her life.

      Silas makes a choking sound and claps her hands over her ears, folds them down over her cheeks and slams her eyes closed. It doesn't block much of the sound. Her forehead makes contact she didn't know was impending with the steering wheel and the horn gives an elongated 'neeeeeeeeeeeeet' as she hunkers down in shocked horror. It rolls like a thousand dropped bowling balls, like God dropped His marbles (maybe His pocket tore?) and the sound rattles the car, vibrating the windows.

      Off in the distance, where she knelt on the pebble beach, is a leftover smoldering structure of fulgurite, spidering and strange and alien. Twisted and gnarled and textured in the approximate shape of her silhouette.