Inside the dimly lit warehouse, as the first of the storm appeared, Kevesk shot out of his chair, instantly awake. His eyes rapidly searched the confines of the room, finding no sign of the youth. "Damn it to the pits! Where is he?" He began to pace the room, waving his arms furiously about the room. As he gesticulated about the room, his wide sleeves fell back to his elbows, revealing densely tattooed forearms. The air around his arms seemed to crackle with power that was at least as intense as his anger. The tattoos were done in various colors: there was crimson, teal, sand brown and white that showed against his lightly tanned skin, as well as dark grays that seemed to border on black. As he began to pace the warehouse, racking his brains, hoping for some insight as to where he might be, he noticed something out of the ordinary.
As he bent over to get a closer look, he noticed that it was actually writing scratched onto the dirt floor. The boy's education was a matter that would require some looking into. The chicken scratch on the floor was barely recognizable as anything legible. He sighed, asking himself why Derrl couldn't just take things as they came, instead of going out to them. There was not much that the old mage could do at this point. He pushed the pallet into a corner, pulled a cloak off a hook on the wall as protection against the wall of water that was drumming on the planks of the walls. He pulled the door open, being careful not to let too much of the deluge of rain inside. This rain was not making him comfortable, there was something about it that bothered him on a subconscious level. It just didn't seem natural. For some odd reason, his mind seemed to be trying to associate the storm with Derrl. Well, he was getting old, even for a mage. Guess I can't rely on my mind holding together forever.