As Kevesk entered the room, he knew immediately that something was definitely wrong, furthermore, he knew what was wrong. He had seen it once before, in Megensk, his tutor, mentor, and everything. At one point in his training, his mentor Megensk had suffered a traumatic experience, that had resulted in the painful, and psychosis inducing dementia as repressed memories were wrenched unexpectedly to the foreground. At first Kevesk had panicked, then, thinking clearly for the first time in his life, he retreated into the vast tomes of his mentors diaries, logs, and notes. It was in this vast library of stored intellectual experiences that a young Kevesk had stumbled across the particular nodule of knowledge that was to save Megensk's life, and coincidentally Derrl's.
"Please," He motioned the others toward the door, "I know what's wrong with him, and I can help him, but I need to be alone with him so that I can concentrate."
Their reluctance to leave was understandable, but if he was to help the youth he had little choice. In his haste to assist Derrl in his flight from his own frantic mind he all but shoved the girl and two men out the door, essentially slamming it in their faces. The resonance from the heavy hard-wood door was just subsiding as Kevesk knelt on the floor or the bed, near the youth's head. He searched his mind for the intricate runes for which he sought, and finding them, he began to weave his fingers and hands, and arms, in a dance that was seducing to the mind, subversive to the spirit, and left any possible watchers mesmerized. Its beauty lay in its deceptive simpleness, for while each individual move was simple, the combined choreography of the several hundred motions boggled the mind. Only with long and hard practice had he been able to produce this rune. The rune that had enabled him to prevent his mentor's brain from being little more than an overwrought pile of liquefied goo.