InsaneJournal

RP: Once, twice, third time's a charm
Characters: Varin
Time/Date: Late night, October 18, 2023
Location: His shop/flat
Warnings/Rating: Eeeevil
Summary: Varin wants to see how much control he has over the returning dead
Status: Complete



Varin stepped into his work room, shrugging off his work robes to put on a lighter set. He'd heard about the last return; it had been in the paper. Odd how the returns weren't front page news any more ... though Varin imagined there were a few out there who would make the paper.

He had it in his head to ... see what he could do about getting some front page formerly deceased wizards.

There was one wizard in particular he'd like to see returned, and Varin wondered if he could summon him back. He doubted. He knew (had heard and assumed for truth, at any rate) whispers about a fractured soul, and reasoned that it might impeded the process. If there was a process, such as it was.

Varin moved to the cabinet and began to unweave the wards, unlocking the various locks in place before he carefully removed the stone. Unwinding the wards from around it, Varin carried it to the work bench.

Moving around with the comfort of familiarity, he gathered components he wanted to experiment with. A small vial of blood was set beside the stone, along with some ground unicorn horn. Thistles of a rare blooming plant were coupled with a few things that he knew worked well as powerful cores - so why wouldn't they serve as spell components?

Flying by instinct, curiosity, and time spent working closely with the components, Varin began to weave his magic over the stone. He focused on the darker wizards who had fallen in the war. The ones who'd born the mark of the Dark Lord, the ones who had supported him. The ones who would help bring a bit of havoc to the world as it stood.

He knew there were things stirring; he had eyes and ears spread out over the island. He had contacts who were to alert him to unusual activities, to anything they overheard in the darker corners they inhabited. He was friendly with two different clans of vampires, he had ears in the wolf pack. He had contacts through artifact shops, through apothecaries, and he was working on one in the hospital as well - it wouldn't hurt to know what sort of injuries came in.

Which hit wizards wound up there most often. Which Aurors had broken bones, had weak points. It was slow work, years yet in the making, but he heard things. Varin liked to know things. To file away bits of information in his head that he could pull out when it was opportune to do so. Perhaps the time was coming to move. To really move as he'd only toyed with before. To begin the slow, steady ascent to power - as so many had tried, and so many had failed.

Perhaps it was time to genuinely focus on finding the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the wand of legend. To see it, to study it, to find out what made it so powerful. To use it, perhaps to recreate it genuinely.

Varin shivered as he felt the magic swirling, rising to a pitch around him before he released it. Perhaps it would work, and more dead would rise. Perhaps it would not. Perhaps this phenomenon was not his to direct, to control, but simply to feed, to observe.

Shivering, trembling a little, the wizard rested his hands on the edge of his workbench. The dry ingredients ground together in the small dish smoked then ignited, and Varin watched the smoke drift out the window into the night.

He licked his lips and slowly began to clean the area. He felt drained, tired, and he was glad he had an assistant opening for him tomorrow. He thought he'd like to sleep in.

If he was fortunate, there would be interesting news in the evening edition of the Prophet. If he was simply a little luckier than most, he'd see something before the week's end.