Aelus marched through the cold, his flesh torn by frequent visitations of Peschek's whip, his skin bruised and his left eye swollen shut by the bludgeons of the slaver's men. When Aelus was first imprisoned, he swore that whatever poor soul claimed the title of master would meet the Skinwalker. A promise he had fulfilled in all but one case, and the time would come soon enough for that exception to fade. Peschek laughed at Aelus' previous owner. The man swore that the slave was cursed, a demon or dark god of the ancient times that brought misfortune and pain to all those brave or stupid enough to accept ownership of him. The man spun a story of missing daughters, mysterious illnesses and sudden deaths. In each case there was no reason to suspect Aelus, after each event he was found just where the master left him, sitting in his cell or room, chained and smiling, staring up at the person sent to greet him. All of his six masters had sold him off within weeks of acquiring him, finding their luck turning immediately after passing him to the next.<br/><br/>Peschek dismissed the claims as superstitious nonsense. At the next town the procession was held up for two days to allow the guards' recovery from an unexplained rash of food poisoning. Over the next two weeks of travel, two tents caught fire and another three guards experienced extreme headaches and stomach cramps. Peschek himself found a pit viper in his tent, barely avoiding its venomous bite. It was after this final attack that Peschek ordered severe measures to be taken against Aelus, finally believing him to be the cause. Aelus was thoroughly beaten by the guards, each taking a turn to release their anger at the misfortunes that had befallen them. They kicked and bludgeoned him until he coughed blood on the cold ground, then tied his hands into a sack. All the while he grinned at his attackers, otherworldly and unsettling. They agreed that one guard should be dedicated to watching him at any given time to prevent him from his midnight wanderings. The guards drew lots every night to decide the two watchmen that would alternate posts, each of them dreading the shift. Aelus never slept, he just sat up, watching his captors.<br/><br/>The Skinwalker's captivity was a game to him, an endless match of wits and will. He did not have the resources to secure a permanent escape, and a temporary sojourn from captivity would only serve to weaken the reputation he worked so hard to create. Paschek's enhanced security protocols took away Aelus' capability to actively sabotage the slaver's efforts, in that the man was wise, but Aelus wasn't a man given to surrender. During the long marches across the plains he worked to expand a narrow tear on the underside of the pouch that covered his hands. Through that rift he poked his fingers, collecting various scraggly herbs and plants that grew between the stalks of tall grass in the endless plains. With those plants he concocted a drug, one of many that he employed to propagate his supernatural persona. This drug induced a shallow sleep in the afflicted, leaving them conscious enough to sit upright and keep their eyes open, but leaving them rested enough to work the next day. Through frequent application of this drug he slowly gnawed at the guard's morale, peeling away at their courage and stripping their will to fight.<br/><br/>Illusion, lies and artifice. These were Aelus' greatest weapons and he wielded them with frightening efficiency. His enemies were in no real danger, not with Peschek's careful guard, but they believed they were. If Aelus had learned anything in his few years, it was that the threat of danger can cause more harm than the sharpest blade. By the time Peschek's convoy stopped at the crossroads none of the guards would look Aelus in the eye. Rumors and stories of his exploits before his capture circulated in every town they passed through, and each one expanded the tendrils of fear gripping the hearts of the Skinwalker's wardens. Aelus sat in the dirt, refusing water yet again from the guards. Living off of what he could squeeze from the grass and weeds of the plains was slowly killing him, but he had to maintain the act if he wanted to be free. He only had to last until the next town, were he could pay off another civilian to get him food and water. Aelus watched each of the slaves take their turn at the waterskin. His tongue dry and his lips cracked, he cursed his arrogance, trying his best to remind himself it was all that kept him alive over the years. Every breath burned, the bruises covering his chest were like a malevolent hand gripping his lungs. He didn't take long to lament his situation, the curtains were still drawn, the audience still in place. His part needed to be played. Aelus looked up to Paschek, standing far ahead of the chain of slaves. The man seemed lost, like he was looking for someone. Aelus shouted to him.<br/><br/>"What's wrong Checkers? Stood up by your boyfriend?"<br/><br/>A nearby guard delivered a swift kick to Aelus' ribs, causing him to inhale sharply. Pulses of pain ran through his already battered torso. He glanced up at the guard, smiling and whispering a phrase in a foreign language.<br/><br/>"Por'dec nu castra."<br/><br/>It was nothing more than a greeting taught to him by an enslaved tribesman from the lands north of the Patriarchy, but he spit it like a curse, and the guard bought it. He stepped back quickly, mumbling a prayer and continuing down the line of slaves.