The scholar wrote frantically, words pouring onto the page nearly as fast as they were filling his head. The incantation had worked, nearly. He'd been able to tap into a fountain of knowledge, but the sudden urge to write had nearly crippled him. He paid no heed to the frantic pounding on the door, the shouting on the other side of the danger of the magics he was invoking.
As he wrote, his eyes became glazed. Running out paper was no longer a problem, his quill burned through the wood of his desk, emblazoning the knowledge flowing through his mind. From the desk, it was the floor. From the floor, to the wall.
Hours later, the mage collapsed, the last of the writings etched onto his very skin. At that moment, the door burst open. The headmaster stood with his mouth agape.
"We must begin the work of Translation," he said with a hint of sadness for his lost friend.