"Allow me to stay next to you Mr. Nimbatuul. Whatever happens here, you may need my aura of protection." Kazri raises her shield and stay to the left of the Dragonborn.

Chill nods in agreement.   

"I can stay by the door then. "

Rhogar carefully moves past the woman seated on the throne.  There is no movement.  He is then able to read the inscription on the wall.

The inscription on the wall behind the throne is written in Draconic and reads “Fourth, coax a secret from another.” 

Rhogar had hesitated at first, but in the end gave a small nod to Kazri, acquiescing to her request knowing full well the folly of trying to convince her otherwise. Not that he had much of a mind to anyways, as her presence was always a comfort, and...

A curt shake of the head immediately dismissed the rogue train of thought. 'Now's not the time for that. Focus.' Despite moving with care the dragonborn found himself quietly astonished at his fortune. A blessing of Tymora, perhaps? The very notion elicited a grimace, but otherwise hadn't distracted him from piecing together the words. Then, he's on the move again, motioning for Kazri to follow him back into the stairway. Only once there does he finally let out a sigh of relief and the miracle that was Vixix' blessing too faded away.

"I-It's done. I.. I almost can't believe it. Now all we need do is make our way back straight away to that gate, and-..." He pauses, frowns, and then glanced back over his shoulder at the woman in the throne. After a moment or two he sighed before saying, "-and now I'm not certain if we should leave just yet. Not without either freeing that woman, one way or another. /Not/ that she necessarily deserves it, but I can't say it sits right with me as well."

As Rhogar and Kazri move past the woman, Krom holds his breath, gripping the handle of his hammer, ready to intervene if necessary. When nothing happens, the dwarf exhales and relaxes before following them out.
"We have done it!" Krom says with satisfaction. "Now we just have to figure out how to open that gate." 
When Rhogar speaks about the woman seated on the icy throne, the dwarf replies, "Freeing her might unleash who knows what kind of terrible magic. That crown looks like a sinister artifact. We should leave her as she is, at least until we've dealt with the Frostmaiden and her eternal winter."

"I agree with Krom.  Don't poke a sleeping bear.  We can deal with her later.  We don't even know if she is still alive." Chill says in a agreement to Krom

Kazri muscles tenses as the pair approaches the female in the throne. She keeps an eye on the body, and Rhogar. To make sure that’s not a distraction from something else that may happen to them. To her surprise, nothing did happen. When they make their way back to the group, she finally relaxes. “Now, that was unexpected.” She says to no one in particular. “We can always come back later. Mr. Nimbatuul. I have a feeling that body is not going anywhere.”

Rhogar frowned and looked about ready to reject the notion of an early departure. But with everyone seeming unanimous in at least delaying any meddling, the dragonborn huffed through the nose, blowing out a few sparks in the process. "Hmn! Verily well. You all raise fair points. There is yet other matters we've neglected to tend to as well, come to think of it. But as time is not quite on our side, I... It is best we make haste for the, uhh.. Thing -- And! Consider along the way the clues thus far." Rhogar spares one last look for the old woman, squeezed his eyes and hissed something in his native tongue, then turned away to immediately start heading downstairs. 

But along the way down he says, "It seems to me we have two major options. We could head back to that, uh, garden place, eh... what was it again?" Gorrah shrugs, eliciting a grunt out of the dragonborn. "Well, you all know the one. There's beelining to that, and by hook or by crook, acquiring one from the Nether Oak. Or, since it's along the way anyhow, we make our way to towards the Thea-ter and possible scavenge a prop of a like make. An awful waste of material, but given what I've seen so far, I would not put it past their society."

"Let's check the Theater first," Krom suggests. "If Tymora smiles on us, we might even find a couple of bones to grind into ashes. If not, we'll have to settle for the ashes of those cultists." The dwarf adjusts his gear, preparing to leave the tower.

You make your way to the theater.  The roof of this domed building is wrecked and open to the elements. Inside is a theater with a large stage, seating for more than one hundred, and a backstage area. Icicles hang from its sagging balconies, and rime-frosted masks leer and grin from its fractured walls.

After sparing a moment to stop and drink in the sight, Rhogar let out sigh of defeat. "Looks like another bust, or likely to be one anyhow. Still though, best we have a look around the backstage area all the same, if nothing else." He claimed, prior to then turning to the others. "And while it goes without saying, do mind the icicles everyone, as one drop on your head will be quite the challenge even for literal miracle workers like Krom here." The dragonborn flashes a toothy grin, and short of others come up with a different plan, readily followed after them towards the backstage area. Either way, Gorrah would keep her head on a swivel and eyes open to any potential threats in the area.

Krom takes a good look at the theatre as the group enters. "It seems so, Rhogar, but you're right, let's investigate the backstage. Any props or stage implements should still be stored there." The dwarf chuckles at the last comment of the dragonborn about the icicles.
As the group moves towards the backstage, Krom placing a hand on Chill's arm murmurs a chant of guidance. "Let us know if you see anything useful, Chill."

Kazri has Oli stay by the entrance. While the others are looking for items, she checks if there is any creature in the theater. “I will check for danger.”

Survival: 23

Chill nods at Krom as he begins looking around for anything that might be useful 

23 + 3 Perception 

The theater, once grand but now crumbling beneath the weight of time is quite and nothing moves, no danger is seen. A vast stage dominates the space, framed by tattered curtains that hang like faded velvet ghosts. Rows of dusty seats—enough to hold more than a hundred—spread out beneath the darkened balconies, their cushions sagging with age. From the upper levels, long icicles dangle like knives, glinting faintly in the gloom. The air is cold and sharp, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of settling wood.

Backstage, the chill deepens. In a small, dim room lit only by the sickly gray light filtering through a broken window, a single wooden writing desk rests against the far wall. It is tightly bound in rusted iron chains, each padlock sealed as though to hold something terrible within. The desk's surface is scratched and blackened, and the floor around it is bare. There are no signs of recent use. Any props or costumes that once filled this place have long since decayed into dust and scraps, leaving nothing but memories and the faint scent of mildew.

It is a place where stories were once told—now a hollow echo of drama, laughter, and sorrow, haunted by silence and frost.

Krom shakes his head in disappointment. "Nothing. There is nothing left here for us." The dwarf turns toward the rest of the group as he speaks. "Let's head to the Nether Oak. It's better to be prepared for battle—I doubt we'll be able to get what we seek by peaceful means."
Krom pauses for a moment. "On our way there, we should also be able to gather a pinch of ashes from the cultists."

"Agreed. " responds Chill.  "Whatever is locked in that desk should probably stay there.   Or it just some strange prop.  No special wands here."

"I mean-..." Rhogar started to say, but a slap to the side of the maw from Gorrah's wing both caught him off guard and gave him pause. After grumpily staring into each others eyes, it is the dragonborn that looked away first with a huff. "I just meant to thorough is all! No need to snippy with me." He objected in a quiet voice. The psuedodragon on wrapped about his neck let out a huff of her own before seeming to settle in again to rest. "I've never worked with wood before for so delicate a creation, but if the Nether Oak proves to be as stubborn as last time, I will lend what advice I can in creating a proper arcane focii once we've gotten a branch from it." Rhogar conveyed to the others while moving for the nearest stable exit out of the theater.

"Well then, to the Nether Oak it is. If it means that we must destroy such ancient creature to achieve our goal, so be it then." Before leaving, she closes her eyes. (Activate Divine Sense) Then she looks at the wooden writing desk at the back of the theater.

Perception: 21

You return to the arboretum, that strange, secluded cradle of life nestled like a secret in the heart of the desolation. The golden leaves crown the tall, ancient trees that grow in the sunken basin, their color still vibrant despite the ever-encroaching ruin beyond. Each tree stands defiant, a relic of a more fertile age, their branches swaying in a phantom wind, though the surrounding air is deathly still—as if the forest stirs in breathless memory rather than in breeze.

Around the perimeter of the arboretum’s curved retaining wall, metal vents exhale puffy gray vapor in steady intervals. The mist rises languidly, curling skyward before vanishing into artificial clouds that hang above the treetops. Then, with a sudden shimmer, the vapor condenses and falls back as gentle rain, nourishing the roots in an endless, mechanical cycle of false renewal.

High above, the illusory dome that once maintained a serene and steady sky now flickers and stutters, a fraying veil over reality. One moment, you see thunderous clouds roiling in a storm that never arrives; the next, the stars hang frozen in perfect silence, as though the ceiling of the world had been peeled away to reveal the cosmos. The glitching projection pulses with unseen tension—like a wound in the world slowly widening.

At the heart of it all, you know the Nether Oak stands. Towering and grim, older than memory, it is the soul of the arboretum and perhaps the last of its kind. Its presence tugs at your senses, magnetic, inevitable. You remember the treant’s voice—deep as roots and bitter with sorrow—as clearly as if it had spoken a moment ago: “Do not return. You are not welcome here.”

But you have returned.