Perhaps hearing the plaintive nature of the pleas coming from the chained one, Andu sighed, and lumbered toward Issy and the Chained One. He cleared his throat as he approached.

She let what he said sink in for a long moment. And in that moment, her entire demeanour changed. Her jovial smile and bright eyes that graced the expression she wore earlier had gone. The was little more than the winter's chill on her features now. Her tone had turned stoic and icy. "I have no brothers." Even after nearly all of her life, the sting of saying something like this still pinched at her heart. "Manticore. You mentioned this name. Of what do you speak, man. Why' This Manticore is linked to the woman once known as Renna the Betrayer?" After all this time, Isuelt and Renna had a supremely delicate truce. But to be honest, the Scathachian was no fool and was always ready for that to come crumbling down at any second.

"Hey, Issy. I see you have met one of our resident enigmas and frustrations." Andu had arrived, if not in time to defuse the tension, then perhaps to offer some kind of explanation. His sudden arrival took her attention for a moment. The minotaur grinned at her. "I've spent a few hours talking with him, attempting to get even a name from him. All I learned for certain, is that along with those chains, and his ghostly state, an inability to both ask for help or to answer questions about how he got into the state he is in, along with how to get him out of it."

The chained one's face pinched at the description Andu gave of him; in some cases it was that he didn't know the answers - the memories were blocked from him. In other cases, he knew but could not speak of them. "Yes, no," he took a deep breath as Andu approached, and he turned to acknowledge him, before returning his gaze to Isuelt. He shook his head slowly, what was a little longer, after all this time. "Peace, Sister. They are," he scowled, he needed a way to differentiate. "Sister's blood, but not Sister's." That was the nature of his geas, to make certain things sequestered from him.

Isuelt appeared to consider Andu's words, and returned her gaze to the one in fetters.

The prisoner's gaze had dropped to stare intently at her gloved hand, as if his eyes were pulled magnetically to it. "Brothers in blood, no, not that, but," he fought thickly to go on, "A Brother, yes, only....unknown," he smiled, and it was half relief, half madness. "See, you are barred names as well." The smile was again half triumph, and half mania.

Isuelt's right hand clenched into a fist. It was not so long ago that the scar tissue waved like waves on the shore to reveal once more her scales of justice. The Scathachian licked her lips.

"You wear chains." Her voice was clipped and stern in its tone, though there was something forlorn in it. "In my experience, there is usually a reason for this." Yes, there had been occasions where innocent people were jailed, it had even happened to her. But overall, Isuelt knew that there was cause for this. There had to be. 'Though,' she thought, 'if Manticore had anything to do with this....If Renna had anything to do with this...' She sighed. "I'm sorry....I..." She glanced down for a moment. "I don't think I can help you." After all, what sort of law-keeper would she be if she just went around freeing criminals and prisoners without any real knowledge of what was going on"

In the half mad, half philosophical confusion, Andu left, having given a terse rendition of anything he knew about the man that might help.

The chained one's hands reached deliberately, but not threateningly, towards her clenched fist. "Put aside your anger, Sister," it was as if a realization dawned on him, "Lost Sister, yes, Lost Sister had....these," the chains rattled, "Not her doing," he stopped as she spoke, becoming subdued. "Sister, please," his hands again reached for her fist. "We ALL wear chains." He frowned, watching Andu go as well, before returning his gaze to Isuelt. "I only," he shook his head, he was grasping, if she left him thus he had no idea how long it would take before he would get another chance - and with his memory the way it was, every chance seemed his first, and only one. Suddenly his mien seemed filled with resolve, "What is blind is also bound, please, I seek," the words were slipping from him, but he clawed them back. "Just appeal!"

Her fist was retracted to sit on her hip, as her other hand did. "You speak in riddles, man. Perhaps we should call the Watch' Go to the local precinct and see if they cannot tell me more about this whole thing?" She knew that was utter rubbish. What in the world would the Watch know about stuff like this" This was more magic than corporeal. If Batten or Renna were here, she could bounce ideas off of them. But Renna wasn't, and Ed" Well, Ed had his own crisis going on.

His eyes closed and he sighed, "The Watch," his voice somehow broken, "You would set the jailer to do the judges work." He had no way of knowing if she would be able to put his muddled thoughts together, but he offered. "The jailers. They will listen to you." He glanced again at her covered hand, even hidden away where it was. "That is the trick of," he sputtered. "What Lost Sister became Lost top. To make you think you have no Brother. No Sisters. To make you think you are alone." The less he thought about what he was saying, the faster and easier it came. There were things he could say without intention, that he could not say on purpose. "It is a lie. Grant me appeal," his tone wasn't accusatory, he was simply looking for an 'out'. "You must. Will you suffer to see your Brother fettered without even a trial?"

Off her hip one gloved hand flew at the man to grip a fistful of fabric near his throat. "Don't you speak of my brothers. And don't you speak of whatever incestuous sister-thing is going on in whatever plane or realm or whatever the **** it is thing with Manticore or Renna or whatever!" Isuelt was still bent out of shape a little that Renna had 'stolen' some of her DNA and made a person with it.

He made absolutely no move to defend himself, yet he would not be denied. He swallowed, and his eyes never left hers. "Is this the quality of your justice, then, Sister?" His voice was soft, inaudible to any but the two of them. "Sometimes vengeance and mercy must blend, yes?" Still speaking softly, not at all moved by her anger - at least not intimidated. His eyes darted to the hand which held him, "This," he nodded, "Is why I must be thus bound."

She stepped away from the man, maybe a few paces and muttered some profanity laced comment about her obligations.

"I'm sorry," Isuelt stated. "I cannot help you." A gave a decisive nod.

The spot she'd touched the chained one felt as though it were burning, and though the sensation was vivid, he paid it no notice. "I shall apply again, Sister." He spoke softly, sadly. "Fare you well."

Isuelt licked her lips and looked over towards the bar and nodded to all those she'd spoken to earlier, then she began toward the back door. It was a long day and was going to be a longer night, it seemed, trying to figure out the riddle before her.

The chains dragged behind him as he once again turned his attention towards Andu. He approached him quietly, all the while the faint smell of something similar to burning pork wafted through the air, and steam rose slowly from the back of his shirt. "Friend...?"

Andu responded to chained one with nod and a shrug. "At least some one willing to with hold judgement until you are known to yourself, and a fair judgement can be given."

Suddenly the chains drew taut, and a look of panic washed over his features. "We make our own chains," the words stumbled out of him, "do you understand" We make our own chains! Mine are made of a blade, but I forged them-" he thrust his hands towards Andu, shackles and all, becoming more manic as the chains drew more tightly, trying to pull him away. "I forged them!" He was hoisted into the air - and pulled apart in a spray of evaporating ethereal plasma.

Andu nods to The Chained One as he seemingly dissolved. "Ah," the minotaur answered to the listener now seemed to be gone. "I shall remember that. And think on it with the other things I have learned. There exists hope, Sir. Hold to that hope."

((The entire preceding scene was done in the Inn, and the above is edited content contributed by " in order of amount " Issy, Andu, and RDI Annabeth. Thank you all for the play ? I'd throw out the date it happened to, if I could even vaguely remember.))

"The many great gardens of the world, of literature and poetry, of painting and music, of religion and architecture, all make the point as clear as possible: The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don't want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don't have a soul." ― Thomas More

The Petitioner

He found that his jailers had a harder time reaching him within the Sanctuary. It was much more difficult for them to rend the curtains of reality and drag him back to Erebus. There was something else about the Garden which gave him solace, something he couldn't quite identify, couldn't quite remember, except for the vague reminiscences of dreams. Men, and women, of war; adorned with flowers and flashes of faces set in grim determination. He knew they were called the Gardener Knights, but all other knowledge fled him.

That was not the only thing which fled.

Often times within the Garden he could spend hours on end without being disturbed, his semi ethereal form moving effortlessly through both growth and edifice whenever he heard someone approach. But he was not always observant enough, and more than once he was come upon others; some of those times, the newcomer would flee, but if the newcomer were a judge they would offend demand answers from him, in which case he would discorporate and return wholly to Erebus, until his next chance at escape when he would return. He never seemed to attempt harm, or to react to violence to those that approached, but that could have been attributable to his chains as much as his character.

Like a convict with a case file, he knew the Judge assigned to him. His presence would continue at the Sanctuary, at least, until he was granted his chance to petition her. Until that time, the Gardens were his prisoners docket. The entire situation afforded him further grim demeanor, whenever he glanced the trappings of the Goddess of War especially. If caught off guard, one might hear a gravelly voice mutter, "There are too god damn many gods of war."

The figure in chains had settled down onto it's haunches. To add further oddity to the manifestation, the figure's feet were bare, toes curling into the soil. His hands seemed capable of touching the flora, and seemingly deft hands drew tenderly away from leaves which were beginning to yellow and curl.

"Too late, I suppose," he stood as he spoke, apparently in response to her question. "I was hoping there would be blossoms, but the season has grown too late for that by half." He knew something about gardening, at least he thought he did. Gardener Knights, why were they familiar" It didn't matter. The flowering was the most visually spectacular part of gardening, and even food stuffs like potatoes flowered, and the more flowers there were, the greater the set would be under each plant come harvest. Flowers were symbolic of rejuvenation, hope, peace, and so many other things. Having arrived too late to find any here, the part of him which was aware of his situation hoped their absence was not also symbolic. His movement had seemed ponderous, but finally he stood facing her, chains binding his wrists and ankles, coiling around them, and their ends vanishing into the ground below him. He opened his mouth to speak again, and for a moment it seemed as though it would not come, and his gaze appeared to look somewhere distant, only returning to the now when it would seem the Judge's already tested patience would be bound to break.

"A Judge," his head canted slightly to one side as his focus seemed to return to the world of the garden, and her, again. "And a chance to appeal my sentence." His green eyes studied hers for a breath as his toes once again flexed against the ground. Sacred ground, indeed. He wondered what he must look like to draw such a statement. Some part of him knew, not by memory but inherently, that that which sanctified the ground of the Sanctuary was not anathema to him, and the evidence of it was in the way his toes curled against the earth.

"I come not seeking to have these," he hoisted his hands, his forearms, showing the chains heavily weighing on each of them, "removed, but seeking to be Judged worthy of removing them; in this, I come in accordance to the strictures of the Law in which," he raised his wrists again, less high, "I am bound." He studied her a further moment, considering her. She must be a warrior, he thought, obviously. A monk, perhaps" Do such warriors qualify as monks? He was reminded, briefly, of the Aurcanian Monastic Order. They too were warrior-monks, but even with their discipline hardened bodies, their physique paled in comparison to hers. If one such as her managed the garden, surely he came to the right - the only - place he could turn to to begin his path of redemption.

Trial by Combat, he thought, meeting her gaze again, unwavering. The one called Isuelt had been able to touch him with her bare hands. Perhaps, with her and her ilk, for a creature such as he, bare fists were the same as sanctified weapons. He would not speak aloud, though, that it was combat that he came seeking. Would they think he hid something about his chains, something that might aid him' They would be wrong, if they did. Perhaps they would think he was skilled in their use as a weapon, which, would also be wrong. He sighed softly, his green eyes subdued and shoulders, though they had not been of proud bearing before, suddenly slumped.

"It's too bad, I would have liked to see the apple trees in bloom." He murmured softly, almost wistfully, and was again silent. He hadn't meant to talk so much, but he was rarely afforded the chance to, and found once started, he was hesitant to stop.

He bowed his head in acceptance. If the figure took offense at her tone, it gave no indication. Indeed, the speed of his compliance may have hinted that his welcome, or its nature, was not unexpected, and he was thus rendered immune to any lack of pleasantry or cordiality. Though his acceptance of Delphinea's directions was immediate, his speed in completing them was hampered by his fetters. Like a man in a chain gang, the distance of his gait was limited to almost three quarters of a whole step before the links of his imprisonment snapped tight. Although he was immediate in his attempt at compliance, his steps were reduced to a hastened, shuffling gait.

Sites such as the Sanctuary grounds were most often consecrated, which would have rendered traverse for one such as the figure - if indeed he were a ghost or other malevolent apparition - almost impossible. If the grounds itself were not enough to this affect, the residents often elevated the divine power inherent in such places further through manipulations of architecture, or botanical designs upon the land; symbols and holy imagery were part and parcel of mosaics, murals, and many a topiary. Yet when and where the man passed any, there was no hint of discomfort, even if he did acknowledge each in its own way. Any symbols found whose dedication was War were passed without a look sideways, and a type of sudden, subtle defiance, only evidenced through the rigidity of his spine and thrust back shoulders and head. There were other dedications, though, that caused a much different reaction. The symbols of Law, Justice, and Judgment as well, and most of them predated those dedications to War by quite some time. Without fail, every one of the latter such 'dedications' was met with a slight bow of his head, which began two paces before and lasted until two paces after he had passed them.

His first step within the stronghold proper yielded a surprising result, though the man himself took no notice, as though for him nothing had changed. But to the eyes of those who met him, a literal substantial change had occurred - his body no longer appeared incorporeal in any way, shape, or form. Indeed, he was completely solid, save for the chains which remain unchanged except for one. Close examination of his fetters would reveal that they were not a single chain looped endlessly, but actually appeared to be nearly a dozen different chains wound together, linked oddly here and there to one another, and the lengths which they allowed him to move seemed to alter themselves of their own accord - stretching or retracting as befit them, regardless of the chained one's needs. One of those many chains was now as corporeal as he was, though not all of its supernatural affect had vanished: along with the other incorporeal chains, it stretched back to the doorway of the stronghold no matter how far he traversed within. The other chains which bound him did the same, but they were incorporeal, ethereal; the shadow and mist they appeared to be formed of could be walked through and kicked asunder - though they would reform so long as nothing barred the physical space they previously occupied.

"I remember the Blade of the Bells," the figure spoke softly as they moved within the Great Hall, some portion of his memory perhaps jarred by the sudden clanging she had instituted before they'd entered. "Not," he frowned, though it was hard to discern with his head bowed. "Not anything specific, but I remember....how it feels. The grip is almost warm. Like it's eager," his voice filled with self directed scorn, if only for a moment. "But who could be eager to wield it, if they knew what it really meant?" He sighed, "Justice. No one really wants it, they want mercy, or vengeance, and want to label it justice to make themselves feel vindicated, or strong, or to avoid humility - they act like humility is a bad thing. I," he looked down at the fetters binding his hands again, and went silent. He'd been about to say something else, but instead seemed resigned to the futility of his thoughts. Instead he changed topics, inadvertently revealing he'd been here for some time, at least, before Delphinea had found him.

"I did not see them earlier in the summer, but some of your plants - foodstuffs and flowers alike - could have been cultivated again." He'd been here long enough to see the crop mature, at least, his presence initially having gone unnoticed since meeting Isuelt had compelled his presence. "Most of them were, but some could have used more earth around the roots. I suspect watering washed some of it away, but if they had been cultivated once more mid season your crop would have improved. Food and flowers alike. The plants spend considerable effort calcifying their roots when they're exposed, rather than pushing into blossom."

An odd avenue of conversation, perhaps, for a man who appeared resigned to the cool nature of his welcome. But perhaps it was just that, although he was in a sense resigned, it was not his preference.

There was an oddly kind look in his eyes as he regarded Delphinea as she handed him over to someone apparently more qualified to deal with the mystery of the man in chains.

"She thinks me mad," the look was not altogether kind, perhaps more accurate to call it fond. "See her," he gestured towards Phin with his chin. "Her facility with combat training overshadows the kind depths of her heart, I think. Otherwise," he turned to his new keeper, Sheryl. "I would be more the worse for wear than my already considerably substandard condition." The little speech that rattled out of him made his voice sound rough and in desperate need of wetting; old finery hung off him in tatters, and like the man himself, appeared initially translucent. The closer one of the priestesses, judges drew, however, the more solid he became, likewise with his apparel.

The chains, often appearing animated in some capacity, appeared subdued. It was as if they were not eager for the inspection of the Judges gaze, or the verdict they might render.

"There is little and less mystery to me," the man spoke to Sheryl, drawing his wrists up before him as if in offering. The bindings of the chains seemed to not only encompass each wrist separately now, but bound the two together. Perhaps the chains were moving while in the Judge's presence, or perhaps it was all moot, and the chains were merely symbolic in everything but appearance. Perhaps. "I come seeking judgment, and trial in the old form; trial by arms, by combat." A look of confusion passed briefly over his face, it was as though he were trying to remember something, some detail, that just wouldn't make itself known to him. He nonetheless tried to continue. "Only the Judgement of a Chainbreaker is valid, and there is one such among you, for it was upon her presence that the chains became ensnared, allowing me to claim Sanctuary here; otherwise the Erebian Manticora would take me. Here, though, even their savagery must yield to greater powers." Scathach, perhaps? Who knew, in some ways he did speak in riddles - but not when it came to what he wanted.

"I seek appeal," his brow furrowed. "Though I concede I may have been justly bound, nonetheless I seek appeal. Test me in what ways you would, to determine my worthiness of a new trial. As the saying goes in one of the many Volumes of Sacred Law, 'ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you'." He held up his hands again, his bound wrists, lashed together, between them. "You must knock," he murmured, unintentionally cryptic.

His eyes rolled almost insensibly at her request that he stop talking in riddles; it wasn't a choice, it was part of his binding, part and parcel of the chains which held him. From the moment the newcomer made mention of him being unjustly accused and executed, a peculiar focus blazed in his eyes. His gaze rolled away from Sheryl for a moment, towards Delphinea.

He found himself second guessing the Judge's decision to use the Scathachian's as his jury. When the initial decree had been passed and bound into the chains which in turn bound him, he'd thought their warlike nature might lead to easy provocation, which would force the issue of his trial. Delphinea's restraint, despite his natural tendency to aggravate those he interacted with due to his inability to restrain himself, had once again impressed upon him the breadth of the nature of justice.

His mouth moved silently, as if at a loss for words to answer Sheryl directly. The chains which dragged behind him, ethereal and seemingly endless in length, their terminus being his origin point in the gardens, began to writhe, seemingly of their own accord. His mouth continued to move, somewhat pitifully, as the ethereal links formed a rough pool on the ground before him. It seemed that one chain was disentangling itself from him, losing it's coherency as chain links and sembling into something else that began to take the misty form of a person just as he managed to croak something.

"Advocate?"

Always quick to battle, the looming Delphinea's hands quickly went to a readied position as both of the Scathachians watched the specter appear before them. Her brow lowered in a disgusted expression at having what she would refer to as ghosts on their property. And though she was not superstitious, nor a believer in the afterlife or spirit hauntings, she could feel her waning patience thinning further.

It was Sheryl who stayed her hand by lightly resting her fingers on Phin's forearm. And without saying a word, the gentler, younger warrior was able to calm the behemoth's temper. Delphinea nodded softly, nearly taking a half a step back. She could tell that Sheryl was eager to see what this specter had to say. Though as the Daughters of Scathach listened to the verdict be repeated by this ghostly woman, they exchanged glances. War crimes were not something unknown to the women who followed the goddess of war; nor were they taken lightly. There were rules in all things, even war. And all too often, the victors make the rulings, whether just or not.

As Sheryl pondered the words spoken by the feminine ghost, it was Delphinea who surprisingly spoke first. "Inhumane suffering and death? Genocide" These are heavy crimes. And you have been already tried by a group of peers"' Her focus shifted to the male form. "How long ago was this" For you are dead and should not be in this plane." The words seemed impossible for her to form, but she did so anyway. "What is it that you want from us Judges" For you have been judged but once already?" Dolphinea's bodily posture, already monstrous, took on a different stance; one of a sentinel. For it was at this moment that she began to view this vision of the prisoner as if he had escaped. Escaped death? Escaped punishment' She didn't even know how to rationalize it.