Within the great halls of Tauroman

Everything was still, silent and unmoved save for one thing - the silent drip-dripping of water, running smoothly off its walls of origin, and falling timelessly into an endless pit below. This endless pit was, in fact, the pool of dreams, as we will soon learn to be its name. The dripping of water did not end there, nor soon by any measure, and continued on and on for many hours; serving its only purpose: to wake Portair.

Portair lay asleep upon a bed of moss which was damp and moist, and provided good comfort. The moss, which grew wildly upon the rock that he lay on, also made a good pillow for his head, and kept him cool through his fever that had lasted long. Although he hadn’t realised it, Portair had actually been there many days now, and had caught a cold - though that was the least of his worries and had soon passed. Suddenly though there seemed to be a presence inside this strange place different from a man - not even a beast in fact: and Portair could feel it.

He awoke rather suddenly and, coughing up a that water that had lain inside him all this time; he managed to open his eyes. After looking around him, and although his eyes were blurred and had not yet adjusted to the light, he made some interesting discoveries. The first thing he noticed however was that his clothes were missing, and he had new ones made of fine black leather. Also, he had been bedded - obviously by other hands than his own - on the bed of rock and moss, though he couldn’t say that he was ungrateful of it. The most interesting discovery that was made however, when his eyes had finally cleared, and he had adjusted to the poor and dim light of his surroundings.

Although not very clear, it was obvious that the place was a cavern of some sort. Not just any cavern mind you, but a large, underground one. Little did Portair know, when he had fallen into the pit, by the hand of Narknom, he had instantly been knocked unconscious by a rock below, and would have drowned had he not been found.

His surroundings were also very strange - to say the least of what he thought of it. The cavern was most certainly large, but did not seem to be entirely a cavern. In fact, with a smooth flowing lake of black water below him, he would have said it an island. The lake of black water was one thing that interested Portair greater than any other. It was large - of course - and had no apparent current or tide. Instead, it seemed as though it stayed still; a lake of black liquid never moving or shying.

As for the island itself however, it seemed to be made entirely of rock; wet, mossy rock, like the sort that grows near cliffs. Although it felt craggy and rough though, it was actually quite soft, smooth and crumbly stuff. But after a good while, and with a chance for his head to clear, Portair thought little of them.

It was a good hour before Portair finally found the strength and courage to stand - for after all, there could be some strange creature lurking about. Portair was also very weary of the seven species. As he rose, quite slowly and with shaky feet he let out a loud groan of pain.

"Ouch! By Goran I am cursed!" he said out loud, as he felt the back of his head. Behind his head he found a swollen mass so large that his head felt smaller by comparison. Also, wrapped on the wound was a small cluster of fragrant leaves. Portair then attempted to lift them.

"No! You mustn’t do that - fool of a man!" a dry and raspy voice said. Portair immediately felt for his sword, but his sheath had no fill.

"Who are you?" he called, scanning the island for the source of the voice; but it could not be found. Even if it could be found - it was too dark for untrained eyes to make anything out.