"All should be well," Krom replies to Rhogar. Then, turning to Chill, the dwarf adds, "The hands should do most of the work for us." Krom pats the pickaxe and shovel strapped to his backpack. "But I do have means of digging. I could create a couple more tools or even shape the stone and earth around the tower directly. For now, though, let’s work with what we have at our disposal."

"Ah, speaking of tools. Ms. Vellynne?" Rhogar turned to the wizard with a hand raised, and if by some unspoken signal, Gorrah dove into the dragonborn's backpack and fished around until able to pop back out with a book in maw. "I meant to give you this the night before. Though, I suppose it'll do you little good at the moment. Once we're able to secure a means to restore your vision, you might find it yet useful, if not enlightening. Then again, if you are possesseth of a familiar, mayhaps you may yet make use of it sooner." He said as approached her, and if need be guided her in clasping onto Avarice's spellbook.

"It's poor compensation for all you've done and continue to do for us, but I hope it's a good start." Rhogar waits a moment or so for any response, flashed a weary smile, and then started to return to the group only to catch himself again. "Ah, and one more thing. We collected quite of few arms and armor pieces that aughta be worth quite a bit to the right collector. And while I would happily keep hold of them until we've returned to civilization, their continued... presence on my person is quite the burden. So, I shall them here for now in your care as well, if that's alright?" He asks Vellynne, but then looked to the dryad (or her tree, if not merged out and about) with a look as if asking her the same question. Though if looks alone seemed not enough, then Gorrah would transmit a short series of images and feelings to the dryad conveying the question in more blunt terms. 

"Alright then,  let's get to work." Chill says seeing Krom has it all planned out.

Vellynne carefully takes the spellbook from Rhogar, running her fingers over its worn cover with a solemn nod. “Thank you,” she says, her voice tinged with exhaustion yet grateful. “Fortunately, I can still see through my familiar, though it is cumbersome at times. But I will get by until I can return to the Brotherhood—there, I can hopefully find proper healing.” She tucks the book away safely, adjusting her grip on her staff before turning her attention back to the task at hand.

The dryad watches warily as you arrange to leave the weapons at the grove, her ethereal presence shifting uneasily amid the ancient trees. Though she does not fully approve, she allows it with your assurances that the weapons will not remain indefinitely. With careful effort, you find an out-of-the-way hollow nestled between the roots of a massive oak, covering the stash with branches and fallen leaves to keep it hidden from prying eyes.

With that matter settled, you return to the city, making your way toward the fallen tower of necromancy. The streets of Ythryn lie eerily silent, the remnants of once-grand structures looming in the dim light. The air carries a palpable weight of history, of magic long faded yet not entirely gone.

Upon reaching the collapsed tower, you find the ruins tangled in frost and shattered stone, a monument to time’s relentless decay. As you approach, the gaunt and spectral form of a ghost manifests, staring glumly down at the debris. His translucent robes billow as if caught in an unseen wind, and his hollow eyes seem lost in thoughts of a past long gone.

The ghost does not attack—his presence is not one of malice but of sorrow. He murmurs of Ythryn’s fall, of the knowledge lost and the empire’s ruin. Yet, it is not revenge he seeks, only the peace of release.

Determined to grant him that, you begin the arduous task of excavation. The work is grueling, and the day drags on as stone by stone, ice-covered debris is cleared away. Strangely, you are not alone in your efforts. The crawling claws—those eerie, disembodied hands—do not turn against you but instead join the labor, their movements quick and eager, as though driven by some deep-seated loyalty to their long-dead master.

As the final layers of rubble are pulled away, revealing a frozen and broken corpse, a shift occurs. The spectral form lets out a sigh, the weight of ages lifting as he gazes upon his own remains. With a final, solemn nod, his ghost dissipates, its form unraveling like mist in the cold air.

The crawling claws, sensing their duty fulfilled, scuttle off into the ruins, vanishing into the shadows of Ythryn. The tower now stands silent once more, yet somehow, the oppressive air of unrest has lifted, leaving behind only the quiet echoes of what once was.

Near the body of the ghost you have set free is a section of wall that bears the following inscription in Draconic: “Seventh, trace a circle with the ashes of the dead.”

Another day has passed, you return to the grove to rest again and plan another day.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Krom says as the group returns to the grove. "It took longer than I expected, but in the end, we found the inscription."
The dwarf scratches his chin for a moment before continuing. "Like the others, that inscription is very specific. As we head to the Tower of Evocation, it may be best to collect a good amount of ashes from the cultists' corpses, we will need it."
"We haven't visited the Museum yet, right? The chances of finding a wand made from the Neather Oak there are slim, yet I think we should check it anyway, just to be sure."
The dwarf after eating his share of food, spends some time to properly clean the shove and pickaxe and repair the miniatures of the Fellowship.

(OOC @DM Before taking a long rest, Krom uses Artisan's Blessing to repair/re-craft the three miniatures destroyed - I removed 15 gold from my inventory)

After the ghost dissipates, Kazri solemnly covers the frozen corpse with the rubble as best as she can. With sweat still coursing through her brow, she tries to respect the body. She utters a silent prayer, so that the spirit can rest in peace.

"Visiting the museum is worth a try Master Krom. Then the Tower of Evocation it is." Kazri pets Oli for a good night of rest. He helped a lot with the clearing of the rubble.

"This place is sad. " Chill remarks.  "Is this our future? In ten thousand years will the future look at what we hold dear in this way?  Will our culture be lost and another take its place? "

The strange melancholy mood affects Chill as they return to the grove to rest again after and long day of work. The next day though he is back to normal and eager to continue. 

"We should be able to find the last clues on this day I think."

Though Rhogar had half a mind to destroying the scattering undead hands once their work was completed, exhaustion dulled his wits too much to even try. So following a sigh born of fatigue and exasperation, the dragonborn packed away the shovel and trudged after teh others to their next destination. "Wasn't too bad? Hah! My arms haven't felt this sore since the time Brother Vixix was first training me to wield my first axe!" Rhogar lets out an almost boisterous bout of laughter and even Gorrah snickered in her own way. Once he calms down though, the reality of Krom's suggestion left him frowning and even growling a little. But knowing the party had little choice in the matter left Rhogar with little recourse except to grudgingly nod in acceptance.

"Very well, Master Krom. /But/, unless the rest of you have a convenient urn or extra bag on their person, it'll be up to Krom to craft the right container for the ashes." He replied along the way. Then in regards to Chill's own remark, no words of false comfort find the dragonborn's tongue. But speak he would while clasping a hand on the tabaxi's shoulder in a show of comfort. "You know as well as I, Chill, that life is ever changing and evolving. But even should our culture as we know it becomes 'lost' in some way or another in time, there will always be others out there to... rediscover it and hopefully even learn from both what made our culture great, and... our many failings. And if they do not, well... so be it! In the end, we can but only lay down the foundation of the future and leave it in the hands of others to make of it what they will, as is their right as inheritors. Even deities, both great and not so, cannot fully escape this immutable fact of existence." Rhogar then flashed a toothy smile and pat Chill on the shoulder. "But do not dwell overally much of this, my fine, furry friend, but rather on what we can do to make a brighter future! If not for ourselves in this life alone, then to make it that much harder on our inheritors to forget what came before, stumble even worse then we did, and **** it all up, eh?!"

Aside from entertaining further idle chatter for the rest of the day and informing Vellyne on the group's progress once back in the grove, Rhogar was happy to find a good night's rest, or as good as one he could hope while still anticipating trouble from a certain trio of hags. But between the dome and other preplanned machinations of the party, both of the draconic pair held out silent hope. On the next day and following the usual morning preparations, Rhogar is as eager as ever to find the last clue and put an end to the frost maiden's latest ambition.

After a long and grueling day of manual labor the grove offers a sanctuary of tranquility—a rare refuge amid the frozen desolation of Ythryn. You find solace among the trees that whisper in the wind, untouched by the devastation that claimed the rest of the city. The air is crisp but calm, a place of peace, where the weariness of the day fades, and the mind finds clarity.

The following day you awaken refreshed, your resolve strengthened for the trials ahead. As you check your notes, you recall that the Tower of Evocation lies beyond the Spire of Iriolarthas, while the Tower of Enchantment stands alone, distanced from the heart of the city. Regardless of your chosen path, your journey will take you past a structure of particular intrigue—the Museum.

As you approach, the frozen streets of Ythryn open to reveal a palatial hexagonal building, its grandeur undiminished by time. A magnificent domed roof, still glittering with arcane energy, crowns the structure, reflecting the eerie luminescence of the ruined city. The entrance, marked by a heavy double door, stands slightly ajar, as if inviting the curious or the foolhardy within. A chill wind stirs the silence, carrying with it the distant echoes of a past long buried beneath ice and shadow. What secrets lie within, waiting to be uncovered?

"If we don’t have or find a suitable container for the ashes, I’ll craft one, Rhogar," Krom replies before settling in for the night.The following day, as the group approaches the Museum, the dwarf gestures toward the hexagonal building and asks, "Shall we check it now, or leave it until we’ve discovered the remaining two inscriptions?"He studies the structure carefully before adding, "Since we’re already here, I say we at least take a quick look inside. After that, I’d suggest exploring the Tower of Evocation next and leaving the Tower of Enchantment for last."

"...... Did we really not?" Rhogar mumbled while rubbing his chin, before then aloud saying, "Mn! Eh, yes. Sounds like a plan, Master Krom. Though I must say out of all the towers we've been to so far, I cannot say I'm looking forward to visiting that last one." He admitted with a shudder towards the end. "But, we must do what we must." He said, before heading inside. But such was his pace that if anyone wanted to they could easily overtake him and take point.

Looking at the entrance to the museum, Kazri readies her sword and shield. "Perhaps this place may offer us some surprises. I am ready."

"As a group then?  The whole never split the party thing?" Chill chuckles.  "I'm ready to enter now.  We are here, let's get it done."

"As a group, Chill, as a group. Splitting the party is never a good idea," Krom says with a chuckle of his own.The dwarf tightens his grip on his shield and hammer as the group steps into the Museum. "Maybe inside, I'll find some mithril bars or ore for my hammer," he adds hopefully.

As you venture inside the museum, the air is thick with dust, and the scent of aged wood and decayed canvas fills your nostrils. The grand hall, once a place of quiet admiration and beauty, is now a haunting ruin. Statues that once stood tall and proud have toppled from their plinths, their shattered remains strewn across the marble floor. The fragments of sculpted faces stare blankly upward, their expressions frozen in time, as if mourning their own destruction. Ornate picture frames still cling to the walls, but their canvases are barely recognizable—faded, torn, and warped by time and neglect.

The silence is heavy, broken only by the occasional creak of the building settling and the distant whisper of wind through broken windows. As you carefully navigate the debris-strewn floor, your eyes catch a set of stairs leading downward into the depths of the museum.

Just as you place a foot on the first step, a sudden crash echoes through the cavernous space below you. The unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor sends a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You freeze, heart pounding, straining your ears for any further movement. The realization settles over you like a cold shroud—you are not alone in the museum.

Chill raises a hand to stop the others.  But clearly all heard the noise.   He whispers quietly to the others.  

"I can guard the stairs while you search the remaining upstairs.   Then we either move on to a tower or see who's hanging out downstairs. "

Rhogar seemed thoughtful for but a moment, then shook his head. "To sift among the debris here will be at best a fruitless effort, and at worse alert whatever lies down there... if they haven't been already." He quietly replied with Gorrah grimly nodding in agreement from the confines of the dragonborn's hood. "And besides, most of what was up here were more decretive art pieces than noteworthy tool of arcanum. But down bellow? Could be we yet find something intact and of genuine note, if nothing else. So, I suggest we proceed with caution."

"I agree Rhogar. There's no point in searching through the debris, " Krom whispers. "I have to say, this isn't what I expected an arcane museum to be."
The dwarf gestures downstairs with his hammer. "I'm not sure what we'll find down there; probably a fight against one of those arcane constructs. Let's stay together as we proceed."

"So, it is settled, let us moved down the stairs." Kazri take point with Oli next to her. As she descend the stairs, she tries to get a better idea of the situation downstairs.

Perception: 14

You step carefully down the stairs, the wooden creaks beneath your feet echoing in the eerie silence of the basement. The air is cold and heavy with the smell of mildew and rot. In the dim light, you make out the familiar scene—once-pristine statues and priceless art pieces scattered and shattered across the floor, their elegant forms now reduced to broken fragments. Dust clings to the ornate frames of paintings that hang crookedly on the walls, their surfaces warped by age and neglect, the colors barely distinguishable through the veil of time.

You move deeper into the basement, your footsteps barely audible on the frozen stone beneath. The shuffling noises grow louder, a faint scrape against stone followed by the unmistakable sound of something soft, like a claw scraping across ancient parchment. Your heart quickens as you inch closer, straining your ears to catch every sound in the darkness.

It’s Rhogar who first sees what’s making the noise. His keen eyes that see the furthest, accustomed to the blackness, scan the shadows at the back of the room. Through the gloom, he spots the creatures—Nothics, their twisted forms hunched and grotesque. Their eyes, one large and glistening, bulge unnaturally from their faces, casting a sickly green glow that flickers as they move. They scurry about the debris, their claws clicking on the broken floor tiles, searching for anything of value amid the forgotten relics. The air around them feels colder, the oppressive presence of these creatures a stark reminder of the corruption that has claimed this place.

Rhogar, his posture tense, remains still, his breath barely a whisper. The Nothics haven't noticed you yet. They continue their rummaging, oblivious to your presence in the shadows. You can hear them muttering to themselves in low, guttural tones—strange and unintelligible, as if the words themselves are twisted by some unnatural force. The basement seems to close in around you, the darkness more oppressive, the sense of danger tangible as you weigh your next move.