Dorian Raker
Humble Farmer With a Sword

Date of Birth

October 1, 1986 (37)

About Dorian Raker

Biography:

Every good story is a mystery and this one is no different.

I’ve gone by so many names that I think I’ve forgotten more than most are ever gracious enough to answer to. Dorian will do. Raker’s generally better. But then, you probably have already gathered that, you clever thing, you. You aren’t here for the obvious, I suppose. But then, everyone does love a good mystery.

But here’s the rub. I’ll let you in on a few of the salient bits, and maybe you can fill in the rest as we go along, yes? I was born in the wrong time. I’m not quite up to snuff on the me-first 21st century free for all. I dislike bandying empty words. I’d rather settle my disagreements with a rapier than with a lawyer. I was raised to hold myself upright.

My Granda and Grandma were fresh off the boat from Ireland. She spoke the Gaelic over my cradle. He taught me how to conduct myself like a gentleman. Father was a career soldier; one of the dinosaurs who still refers to it as “The Noble Profession of Arms.” Mother was a nurse and yoga instructor depending on the day you asked her. Couldn’t ask for a better home life, really. Grew up introverted and aloof; got things on my report card like “So bright and creative. Extraordinarily talented. Has trouble relating to the other children.”

But then, I suppose I got better.

I’m college educated, well-traveled, and have a story for just about everything. Take after my Grandda in that regard. I’m tall, lean, and fit; something that I get from my father and my job in about equal proportion. My stubborn streak is my Mom’s through and through (a five-nothing dynamo who is to date the only person I’ll flinch from). And I suppose the soft Irish lilt I get in the grip of a strong emotion is me Grandma’s.

The glass, if you ask me, is either half-full of something unpleasant or a crude, but effective, weapon. It depends largely upon the day. Don’t count me as a pessimist. I very much hope for the best, but I plan extensively for the worst.

I love to fence. It’s a rare joy to know that in a day where any punk can wrap his hand around a nine millimeter, I can defend myself with anything from a foil, epee, rapier, broadsword, saber, to a claymore. But then, I am also required to be able to hit a man-sized target from sixty yards while lying on my back with a nine-millimeter, so…take from that what you will. I’m an avid reader. My Kindle (gods forsake me, I’m a convert to the sterile little contraption for all its faults) is always in my go-bag. I love music. In an earlier life, I was a touring guitarist in a band that never really made it anywhere before real life began. But then, the thing that keeps me coming back is my real passion. I do so love to write.

Hm…what else? I speak four languages fluently enough to be mistaken for a native. I speak three others enough to get by. I love to cook and to eat, because it is more art than science (Ms. Holstead, you lying bint). Fine wine and fine whiskey are easy paths to my heart. I love the smell of cordite and cassis, gasoline and gouda. My favorite flower is the amaranth. I adore leather, chrome, and faded denim. I live my life in sunglasses and to a industrial trance grind, interspersed with the lurid glow of candle-light and an espresso buzz. I fear failure. But not so much that I hesitate for a single heartbeat.

I am Dorian Raker. And you still don’t know the half of it.

Location:

Somewhere between Heaven and Hell.

Interests:

Writing, Guitar, Fencing, Archery, Firearms, Dead Languages, Languages that are still kicking a bit.

Occupation:

The One Your Mother Warned You About.