William Sallow

[Saal]

Basic Information

Name: Saal (Most commonly given name)
Other Names (Nicknames and such):
El Hombre Quemado, Fantasma Sangriento, Padre Rojo
Age: Unknown
Height: Around 6'1
Weight: Around 180
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Unknown
City of Residence: Origin unknown: rumored to be born in Utah, travels the North and South American Continents.
Mental Information

Personality: A lonely man who's only purpose is hunting. Strongly religious, he sees hunting as his contribution to keeping the Lord's flock safe. He feels as if his entire life has been twisted and warped by the mistakes of his past. The only thing that kept him sane in his darkest hour was the kindness of the padre who saved his life and gave him purpose. His faith rekindled, he devoted his life to championing the righteous padre's cause: hunting the abominations of the night. Quiet, though not shy of conversation, he is plagued by demons both inside and out. Saal is never one to push his beliefs on others. He believes that if even he can find redemption, others will find their own way to the Lord. A solemn hunter, dedicated to his habits and pushed past his limits time and time again.

Mentality: "I have been baptized twice, once in water, once in flame. I will carry the fire of the holy spirit inside until I stand before my Lord for judgement."

His attitude toward other humans is a live and let live philosophy. Due to his past he feels as if he's incapable of judging the actions of others. Though he will not stand for any harm coming to those he's chosen to protect.

Physical Information

Description: Well built from years of physical training; all exposed skin is covered in tightly wrapped bandages with only his eyes showing through.
Body Type: Mesomorph
Scars/Tattoos/Piercings: Seemingly covered in burn scars from head to toe.


Apparel:
A white collared shirt - rolled-up sleeves, heavily patched blue jeans with a hole in the right knee, rattlesnake boots, leather belt with several magazine pouches and an old police department SWAT ballistic vest. A few books he salvaged from the wreckage of his rescuers' home.

History Information

History: Tales are still told of El Hombre Quemado, the former righthand man of South American terrorist Edward Graham. A young peace corps translator, William Sallow was taken hostage along with Navy serviceman Graham. After orchestrating an escape, the two organized a resistance group. Graham showed them how to clean and maintain guns, operate with small unit tactics, create their own explosives, and to strike at their weakest enemies first. Sallow remained with Graham as a translator, but soon enough translation became giving orders and giving orders became leading in battle, training and terrorizing. Graham turned to pirating local villages to maintain their strength of arms and supply of recruits. The region was held in a reign of terror as their bloody legion continued to sweep over any resistance. Sallow was neither a particularly brilliant strategist nor tactically flexible. It was his menace and brutality that gave him infamy. The atrocities he committed struck fear in ally and enemy alike. He was ruthless, unpredictable and above all else legendary for being impossible to kill.

After a failed assault and subsequent retreat in a Nicaraguan skirmish Sallow was made an example. Graham would tolerate no failure, even from his highest ranking subordinate. Sallow was publicly covered in pitch, lit on fire and tossed off a cliff into the Caribbean.

Folklore claims Sallow survived although no confirmed sitings exist.

Some say a man covered in bandages was seen fleeing the scene of a burning mission.

Others wonder aloud why Graham hasn't been seen by the public since three months after Sallow's execution.

Stats:

Current Level: 0
Current Points: 2
Points until next level: 8

Strength: 12
Dexterity: 10
Constitution: 20
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 6
Charisma: 5

Equipment: Two .45 caliber M1911 Auto pistols: one is a smaller Colt New Agent, the other a standard variant. Both loaded with alternating silver and iron tipped rounds (e.g. 2 iron, 2 silver, 2 iron etc.). 1 silver hunting knife (large), 1 black-coated dive knife (small).

[Saal]

Excerpt from the journal of William Sallow:

"I need to get this all down on paper, out of my head. It's driving me insane. The intensity of it all weighs down on me and I need peace, O Lord give me peace. It's still so vivid:

I can always see it in my mind. The warmth and the heat. It will always be a part of me.

I still feel the dirt beneath my boots as I walk to the peace corps. offices. Heavy with a sense of destiny, I walk to depravity without a second thought, excited to see South America.

I hear Edward's laugh as he tells jokes from his Navy days. I hear the motors start and see… Gwen, I think her name was Gwen, brace herself against her seat; anxious and beautiful. She catches my gaze and I smile to reassure her.

I remember the frantic beat of my heart as I struggle to translate and respond to the rapid inquisition of the militiaman. I blink away surprise as he slits Gwen's throat before I can correct my mispronunciation. The spray from her neck still stains my vision. I see Edward's jaw locked in stoney fury. It doesn't click.

I am with Edward as we make our escape. His training and tactics, with my voice band our fellow prisoners together. We sneak past the militia with an air of vengeance weighing us all down, stoking the fires inside our souls. The resistance is born; we claim to champion freedom, to save lives, and protect people. We are thugs with weapons. Edward is a brilliant soldier, cold and efficient. He is a talented killer and they are eager students. I wonder on his life before this. It doesn't click. I want to return home; I cannot abandon my friend. We are cruel and terrifying. We tell ourselves the gruesome deaths will scare the others away. We tell ourselves to save lives by torturing a few. They are the bad guys, we-- I want to believe. So many compromises.

This way lies the path to Hell. Edward needed me to translate. Translation became giving orders. Giving orders became leading in battle. Leading in battle became training, punishing, terrorizing. They learned to fear me; my brutality. I committed many atrocities in the end, in the name of whatever ideal I wanted to embody. The truth is, I was just following orders; it seemed normal by then. A series of small mistakes before a great fall. I stayed in this darkness for years… until after Nicaragua. Until after I failed Edward and he had me burned alive and tossed into the Caribbean. I was supposed to be an example. I survived.

I survived because the fire inside of me burned brighter than the flames around me. I fell into that dark, watery maw but the flames burned on and on. The next morning I crawled out the northern head of that cursed place. It took me three days to reach the nearest settlement. Brought to the local mission I was cared for and accepted, no questions asked. They welcomed me as if not a single red drop weighed on my head. Even when they learned who I was. The fire that kept me alive was love. Their love. God's love. I will never be able to repay the debt I owe them, but I must try.

I still feel his blood running down my knife as he laughs. Salt on the floor, crunching under my boots as I walk through the door. I see the mangled bodies of the people who saved me. The broken rag doll that was the padre clutching a wooden stake in one hand and a large metallic cross in the other. Edwards laughs, standing over them, his eyes dark and cold. I feel his blood running down my blade. Even as I stop his heart, he laughs. It doesn't click. Black smoke screams from his mouth. It's hazy. The light leaves his eyes and the smoke clears. The padre has a key around his neck.

There is a library, beneath the cellar. The books tell of monsters. They tell of righteous people, burning with the fury of the Lord. They fight monsters. A phone number, American, scrawled on the inside cover of the padre's journal. One word beside it in red: Cazador.

Hunter.

I don't enjoy killing, but done righteously, it's a chore like any other. After all, practiced hands make for short work. And the good Lord knows, there's much work to be done here. "