I hadn't seen Dor for awhile, so I figured it was time to check in; make sure he was still alive, y'know? Figured Bry might be a little miffed it the boy couldn't handle the strain of watching a Islets sink to their watery grave.
And by “couldn't handle the strain” I mean maybe he was drinking himself to death? It's the kind of melancholic suicide you'd expect from him, especially after the fight with Brykon.
That fight had unnerved me, to be honest. I've never found myself in the position of wanting to see a grown man cry, but I'd been treated to a full show of tears and pleading beneath Xa-Koro. It didn't fit with the Dorian I knew, or, rather, the Dorian I thought I knew. Who would've thought one of the islands most renowned mercs was so messed up?
I had the feeling he was just the first, though. Some of Bad Company had already begun to show the strain of knowing they were responsible for the karzhole we'd left behind. Or, at least, I had been. I hadn't looked back: I didn't want to care anymore.
Still had to care about Dor though; I liked him, and would've hated to see him die. Besides, Brykon had put me in charge (for who knows what reason), and that meant it was my job to see my men were safe, even though all we were doing was sailing.
I knocked once. “Dor?”
There a long pause.
“Jin. Be a sweetheart and, uh, kill Grokk for me.”
That was Dor's voice, but it was slurred and choked, so much so that I to do a double take when I first heard it. He'd obviously been drinking.
I didn't have anything prepared to say to this, so I just stood there and repeated what he said like a dumb parrot.
“Yes, Jin. Grokk. I want him dead.”
Like karz he did. I'd had enough of this already.
“Dor, I'm coming in.”
The door was unlocked, and as I pushed it open I heard Dor making some weird noises, mumbling and moaning and when I finally opened the door and stood there and and looked inside I could not believe my eyes.
The room, for starters, was covered in graffiti. Seeing as Dor was the only person who'd been in here since our launch, he had to be the vandal. Scribbles of nonsense and creepy poetry were everywhere, as well as crude drawings and caricatures, many of which were of a Skakdi whom I assumed was Grokk (A lot of swear words inevitably accompanied those particular scribbles).
The floor was covered in scratchy writing, too, as well as an empty bottle or two. That explained why Dor was throwing what looked like the world's biggest tantrum. It also explained the bucket of vomit sitting next to the dresser, although I was kinda surprised to see that Dor was having such trouble handling his alcohol. I'd thought he'd had a stronger stomach.
The room, however, was nothing compared to the man standing in front of me.
Dor's shirt was off, revealing a ton of tattoos he definitely hadn't had the last time I'd seen him shirtless. More weird poetry and scribbles, and a ton of bones, and way too many other things I couldn't make out and didn't particularly want to, anyway.
He was wearing his old scarf, but now the fabric, like his face, arms and chest, was stained with vomit and blood. His eyes were bloodshot and he was sweating like crazy. In short, he looked like a crazy man.
He squinted as I opened the door, letting some light into his dark, smelly room, and cowered behind a tattooed arm. His eyes momentarily focused on me, and widened.
“Whoa, buddy,” I began. “What the karz is going on here-”
That's when he jumped me.