Name: Captain Isadore "Dory" Valentine

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Age: 33

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Faceclaim: Leon Bridges

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Pronouns: He / Him

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About:

 

Isadore, despite all that his solitary swashbuckler image may suggest, comes from one hell of a big happy family. He was born in 1915, the eldest of seven Valentine children and the only boy to boot. The Valentine family made their home in the working class inner walls of the Big City, descended from freed men and women who had worked the land upstate for generations before the Fog rolled in and the domes came down. Since, those of the vast Valentine family tree who weren’t buskers or military men made a living running the family business: Georgina's Groceries or "G.G.'s" corner store.

As a kid, Dory helped out in the store through its numerous ups and downs and was destined to take over the family business. It was steady, honest, simple work. And he couldn’t stand it for a single goddamn second. Didn't feel right having his feet rooted to the ground, he'd say, bellyaching often to the mechanic's kid down the street when he took the family truck in. With the La Rosa kid and a half dozen little sisters egging him on it was only a matter of time before he deferred his father's mantle to the next eldest, Dinah, and took off upstate as soon as he was old enough to lie about his age and sell it. Picking up odd jobs in domed agricultural centers, Dory dropped the childhood nickname in favor of the more debonair "Valentine" and began as a farmhand. From there he climbed to a crop dusters' maintenance grunt and clawed his way on up the skill ladder, soaking up every lesson he could while working tirelessly for his keep. Obsessed with the moments he could steal in a cockpit before a genuine pilot saw and came swatting him out. Valentine was blinded to all else. Wanted it so bad it ate the heart right out of him. So when his break came he was primed and ready; that license felt so right in his hands, his gleaming golden ticket to flying crop dusters himself.

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It was on one of these farms that Colonel Montgomery Molyneux scouted him. The Colonel had been visiting the estate's proprietor, a client of the Lions, when he spotted that biplane Baby executing barrel rolls and offered him an opening. It wasn't until Valentine stepped on to the Lions Den tarmac and spotted a face he hadn't seen in years that he learned he'd been picked up on recommendation. He's been toasting to Giancarlo La Rosa ever since, despite the man's chagrin.

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Valentine's been with the Lion's years, now. Grown with them, fought with them, drank to them, almost died for them once or twice. Earned his tireless keep and loved it, this time. These days he's found flying point for the fighter pilots and serving as the smiling tacky glue that binds the whole band together - whether they like it or not.

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Standing at 6 foot even, this scrapper of a pilot won't hesitate to deck you where it counts - that is, if you prove yourself a foe faster than you try for friend. Beyond that? He's all bark, little bite. Ask him to put his money where his mouth is, just might turn up broke. Unless, of course, you take a dig at one of the Lions, or the light of his life and trusty plane: Baby (a hunk of rusty junk that's as trusty as she is agile, nose painting with a shark-toothed smile). If that’s the case, the only guarantee for your safety is the slim chance of outrunning him.

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The only thing brighter than Valentine’s sense of humor is that set of restless eyes, sitting wild and keen beneath a quirked brow. When those eyes aren't looking you head to toe with enough shamelessness to send Etiquette blushing, or maintaining just enough contact to tell you he's listening, they can be found surveying anything and everything of interest - taking the world in like it’s his goddamn oyster.

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