Octavius laughed when Ceres refused to shake his hand. That was her loss, not his. "We don't have a deal yet, sweetie." he replied, still chuckling, "It's not a deal until we shake on it." he winked at her as they began their escape. Then, of course, the alarm went off. He had a hard time believing they were ringing the bells because of someone dead down here, but it was always good to be careful. He was in the lion's den, now. But before he could start working on that, his new friend started going off about their deal and such. "We haven't made a deal yet, Ceres. We've set terms, but we didn't shake. Terms don't mean shit." but despite all that, she still tossed him the keys and pointed him toward the lockers in the back. And she was right, his things were indeed all the way back there. He found his clothes, dusty, but as nice as the day he'd been captured. He changed quickly, then, scanning the racks of weapons for his. Unfortunately, his once-beautiful fowling piece was ruined by the damp and the fouling that had been left in it. It was but an instant before the captain realized what was wrong. He swore violently and tossed the ruined scattergun across the room. His sidearm was in a similar state. He almost wanted to cry for the craftsmanship that was wasted. But there was nothing for it, and they had an escape to make.

Thinking quickly, he decided it would be best to arm himself swiftly and bugger off. Captain Cuttlam figured functional was best for now, and he snatched up a new-looking service piece, and its matching revolver. Then he grabbed a case of ammunition for each of them, stuffing the bulk boxes into his satchel before tearing into another one. From this one, he loaded his new weaponry, brass-cased sixteen gauge shells, and vicious forty-four magnum rounds were snatched up and nimbly slotted into tubes and cylinders. Despite his lack of practice, the pirate found his fingers remembered the actions well. It was mere seconds before he was ready to go, with more ammunition than he expected to go through in the next several months. As a final touch, he grabbed a bayonet for his fowling piece on his way out the door, smiling at his fortune. The only thing he had to complain about, was his poor, glorious weaponry, destroyed by thoughtless gaolers. He'd get them back. but not today. For now, he needed to escape. And hopefully the lady who'd freed him would be a bit more agreeable now that they were armed.

Shotgun slung across his back, pistol tucked neatly into his bag, and bayonet in hand, the Shotgun Preacher headed for the light of day, and his freedom...