B3? Chapter 262: Escape, pt. 3

Feeling the chill of the air on his still damp skin, Kaius tugged his pants over his hips and muscled the buttons on his fly closed.

Despite his struggles with the non-compliant clothes, he still stared over the bunks in front of him to keep his eyes trained on the door—the constant restless gnawing he felt in his chest urging him to move faster.

Even with Ianmus and Kenva now fully dressed and keeping watch, every second would matter if someone discovered them. He wanted to be able to react immediately.

Eventually though, the trousers won the war—the final button was too troublesome to close without looking. Grunting in frustration, he forced it through and bent down to grab the tunic and jacket he had found.

Those, at least, fit a bit better—sturdy canvas and wool sliding over his broad chest comfortably, even if the sleeves were a little too short.

Kaius supposed he should feel grateful he found anything that fit him at all. He was not exactly a commonly sized man, standing a full stride taller than the average, with shoulders that may as well have been thrice as broad. Even a couple of months of thin gruel and torturous confinement wasn’t enough to put a dent in the muscle he had built over the last year.

Some of that he expected was due to the influences of his Beastblooded racial trait, and his bond skill, but he’d always been big.

Kenva and Ianmus had faired better. Ianmus fit his clothes just fine, though his wrists and ankles jutted out awkwardly far, and the ranger had the opposite problem—extra fabric bunching at the ankles of the boots they’d managed to find in a usable size.

Lucky bastard, both he and Ianmus had been relegated to simple black socks.

At the very least, the clothes were a massive upgrade from a rotting tunic. It wasn’t armour, not by half, but the fabric was triple stitched and thick—it would hold up to the abuse he expected they’d put it through before they retrieved their real gear from the vault.

Only time would tell if it would actually help to obscure their status as escaped prisoners.

The weight of the unknown sat heavy, bubbling anxieties threatening to turn his focused haste into panicked speed. He forced the feelings down, focusing on his immediate tasks.

Whatever came next, they’d manage.

Fully dressed, apart from the socks he had left sitting on the nearby bunk, Kaius reached for the dark grey woolen blanket that he’d used as a towel.

Drying his hair, Kaius looked back at the spigots they’d used to get clean. Even if the water was frigid, it was a monumental step up from the weekly hose down of literal ice water they had gotten in the cells. Their fallen jailor might have wanted to rid them of the worst of the muck of their captivity, but he hadn’t made the experience pleasant.

With the soap they’d found, he felt downright reborn.

Judging by the way the rigidity that had suffused Ianmus and Kenva had faded somewhat, he assume his companions felt similarly. Though, he did notice that Ianmus was still doing his best to avoid Kenva’s eyes—angled away from her under an obvious pretence to get better coverage of the door.

Kaius smiled, shaking his head slightly. He understood, even if he didn’t feel the same compunctions with nakedness. Even though they had all been focused on moving as quickly as they could, it was impossible not to notice with how little privacy the room afforded.

His brother, on the other hand, somehow managed to look even more fearsome with his dense fur plastered close to his skin. Waiting patiently towards the front of the room, every curve of his musculature was highlighted in a dull red sheen—making him look more like an artist’s rendition of primal strength than a truly living creature.

The simple statement of his brother’s primal might eased his nerves. Even if they did end up in a fight without their gear, Porkchop would be almost at his full strength. He doubted any two-bit crook would be able to go toe to toe with a rampaging greater meles.

Unfortunately, such wasn’t the case for him. He was limited to the small selection of spells he had already inscribed, and a simple camping knife. He’d taken a few minutes to inscribe a handful more while his team had cleaned themselves—Hateful Nails one and all—but it still didn’t feel like enough.

At least with the knife he should be able to use Mystic’s Rend, his skill never did say it needed a sword.

Grumbling inwardly at his circumstances, Kaius walked over to the small table that sat next to the armoires where he had scavenged their clothes and snatched up one of the blades he had left sitting there.

He flicked it into the air, wincing as it’s balance made it tumble uncontrollably. He snatched it out of the air—mental stats improving his perception to the point that such a feat was easy—and slammed it into its sheath.

Buckling its sheath at his waist, he knew that the naked discomfort he felt without his sword was a simple reality he had to get used to. At least he had a blade, even if it was a poor one.

Scooping up the remainders of the motley collection of uniformly bad quality knives, Kaius made his way to his team.

“Here,” he said, passing off a blade to both of them.

“Can I have another?” Kenva asked, eying the remaining knife left. “I’m Skilled in two blades, and these are just long enough for me to use with my abilities.”

He nodded and passed it over, relieved that another member of their party would be atleast partially battle-ready. Though, he did know that the woman was primarily a ranger, so he doubted that short-blades were anything more than a backup weapon in more normal circumstances.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“How much further is the vault?” Porkchop asked, his attention never wavering from the door.

Kaius grunted. The compound was massive—or, at least, what he had seen of these two underground levels suggested it was. Currently they sat at the almost complete opposite end of the floor from both the vault, and the stairs to the next level.

Thankfully, despite each layer being made up of a mire of twisting and intersecting corridors and rooms, one group of guards who had taken him semi-regularly to questioning had a tendency towards. They had never daudled when they’d hauled his limp body to the torture chambers on the floor above, and he’d memorised their route.