As a priest of Chislev, Nalvarre's life's work had been to protect and preserve the creatures and the woodlands of Krynn. When he was still a young priest, he'd been given the guardianship of a lovely forest hidden away in a quiet corner of Solamnia, near the city of Kalaman. During the siege of Kalaman, the Knights of Takhisis were spreading their influence all over Ansalon, marking the lands with fire and sword. A band of Knights had come from the south with a party of draconian soldiers. They set up camp in his beautiful woods, and they began to cut the trees to build siege engines for their armies. When they had all they needed, they cut trees apparently for the fun of it. They torched the dead and dry leavings of their works, and these fires soon spread throughout the forest. Nalvarre's home was destroyed, his forest decimated. Even in those days, when he wielded clerical powers, there was little he could do. He moved to a new woodland, but this one also fell to the armies of Takhisis. Each time he moved, it seemed they came to destroy what he loved, until there were no more woods for him to move to. The Knights of Takhisis took control of Qualinost. Nalvarre fled to Sancrist, the very last place on Krynn where he expected to find Knights of Takhisis and their malicious, life-hating draconians, and now, here they were!
Even so, Nalvarre needed a few moments' rest, water, and something to restore his strength. The water was easy enough, for all the lake lay between him and the mountain; it was food he was hard-pressed to find. He hadn't had time to search for food, and he'd already eaten the small ration of bread and honey he brought with him on the journey, but there was nothing to be done. He had to keep going. He felt time was already slipping away from him.
At one point, the path swung near the lake where an outcropping of flat rocks formed the shore. It was an easy place from which to draw water and was often used by such travelers as visited the valley. Nalvarre laid himself out flat on the rocks in the morning sun. Leaning over the edge of the rocks, he drew handfuls of water to his parched lips. He drank first to quench his thirst, then to lessen the edge of his hunger. When he'd drunk his fill, he lay there a while, resting his weary feet and looking at his own reflection in the water.
He didn't like what he saw. He looked weary, haggard, old. His beard was a mess, but he didn't really care about that. The cheeks beneath the beard looked drawn, the lips thin. His hair was shockingly gray. He didn't remember it being that gray, but then again he couldn't remember the last time he saw his own reflection. How many years had it been?
He turned his attention to the reflection of the morning sky. Pillowy white clouds chased each other across the crisp azure of the heavens. Mountains rose all around, with colors of granite and stone, and the grayish-green of the evergreens on the highest slopes. Like some kind of magic spell, the beauty and serenity of the scene relaxed his aching muscles, eased his worried mind. His eyelids grew heavy, began to droop, but it wasn't magic; it was only his exhaustion and his desire for sleep. He fought it off, shaking his head and splashing cold lake water in his face. He blustered and gasped, spraying droplets from his beard. He looked again at his reflection in the water.
"Fool!" he shouted at himself. "To think you almost fell…" A spot of movement in the reflection of the sky caught his attention. He rolled onto his back and gazed up.
Like a sparkling droplet of blood against the blue of the sky-high, high above, tiny with distance, flew Pyrothraxus. Nalvarre knew it was Pyrothraxus even though he'd never seen the dragon; it could be no other. He felt all his trepidations and fear rush to a head. The gully dwarves were involved in something more sinister than the death of one unfortunate Aghar. Why else would draconians be hunting them? Why else would Pyrothraxus choose this day to fly over the valley, where he'd never flown before?
"What am I to do? What can I possibly do?" Nalvarre wondered aloud. "I am only one man." A vision of the gully dwarves sitting at his table, their faces smeared with food, rose unbidden to his mind. He knew then what he had to do. He had to draw a line in the sand, for there were no more forests in which to hide. He'd never again sit by and watch what he loved destroyed, using his solitude, one man against many, to excuse his lack of action. All his life he'd adhered to the principles of balance but without really understanding them. Chislev taught the philosophy known as neutrality, a philosophy of balance. Both good and evil must exist in contrast, so that the balance of the world is maintained. Nalvarre had always thought this meant he must never take sides, must treat both equally. Only now did he realize that the importance lay in balance. When evil seems ready to overwhelm the world, good must be assisted to regain the balance. When good threatens to consume all in its fires of righteousness, evil must be given room to breathe and grow.
Now evil threatened to consume Nalvarre's last home. He'd been pushed across half a continent, and there was nowhere else to go. It might not mean much in the grand scheme of things, or it might be the difference between peace returning to the forest and evil sweeping down and destroying his last home, but he had to try to save the gully dwarves. He leaped to his feet and charged off through the bulrushes. The mountain, and home, was still many miles away.
All that day he marched up the mountainside, over the stream, over the bridges he'd crossed only yesterday. He marched late into the afternoon, and as he neared home, his steps quickened despite his weariness. Each step was indeed a toil. The mountain had taken its toll upon his body. He no longer felt his legs, and his lungs ached with the cold. His arms were so tired, he'd have long ago cast aside his staff if he hadn't needed it to hold himself up. All the while, he had to battle his common sense, which seemed to scream, "All this trouble for a bunch of gully dwarves!"
Finally, there was one more bridge to cross, and then a short walk beside the stream. How many times had he walked it before, never realizing how great a distance it truly was? He thought he'd never see the roof of his house again, but as he rounded the bend, there it was, beneath the shade of the beech tree. Everything seemed fine-no signs of violence.
A low and mournful howl chased away the last of his doubts. "Millisant!" he gasped as he broke into a run.
"Uhoh! Glabella! Lumpo!" he shouted as he neared the door. He threw back the latch and opened the door. Millisant came hobbling out and began to sniff the ground around the cottage.
Immediately he noticed the bandages on the hound's front legs. He kneeled beside her and examined them. She'd nearly chewed them off to get to her wounds, knife wounds by all appearances. It didn't make any sense at all. What had happened here?
Millisant seemed determined to sniff out some trail or other, so it was with much difficulty that Nalvarre wrestled her back into the house. The night promised to be cold, so Nalvarre quickly built a fire. Once it was burning brightly, its light illuminated still more mysteries. The house had been ransacked, but not for treasure. Every scrap of food in the house was gone, except the honey pots on the mantle. The flour barrel hadn't been touched, but anything readily edible had been taken. The gully dwarves' personal belongings were also missing. Nalvarre busied himself making dough and rolling it out for bread while pondering the puzzle set before him. Millisant sat at the door and whined.
He ate a frugal supper of bread and honey. It just didn't make any sense. If the gully dwarves had been captured by the draconians, who had bound the wounds of Millisant and locked her up? When he had finished eating, as he began to put away the dishes, the solution finally struck him.
The gully dwarves were alive! They'd escaped. In his joy, Nalvarre strode vigorously around the room, clapping fist to palm in his excitement. Millisant whined.