Alvenheim had always prided himself on three things: his impeccably pointed ears, his ability to talk his way into—or out of—any situation, and his keen eye for a profitable opportunity. On this particular morning, the middle-aged elf found himself in the bustling marketplace of Thornwick, counting the coins in his purse and frowning at how few remained. His last venture, selling enchanted mirrors that only showed people their good side, had flopped spectacularly when customers realized the mirrors simply didn't work on Tuesdays. He needed a new scheme, and he needed it fast.

That's when he spotted the gnome. The elderly fellow was standing in the middle of the square, scratching his white beard and spinning in slow circles, muttering to himself. His pointed hat sat slightly askew on his head, and he carried a leather satchel that looked far too heavy for his small frame. Alvenheim's merchant instincts tingled. Anyone carrying that much gear had to be on some kind of quest, and quests meant gold.

Alvenheim approached with his most charming smile. 'Good morning, friend! You look like a fellow of great wisdom and purpose. Might I offer my assistance?' The gnome looked up, squinting through a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes to comical proportions. 'Assistance? Oh, yes! I'm looking for... for...' He paused, his face scrunching in concentration. 'Now what was I looking for? I had it written down somewhere.' He began patting his many pockets frantically.

After watching the gnome search for a full minute, Alvenheim gently asked, 'Perhaps you could tell me your name first?' The gnome's face brightened. 'Fickler! I'm Fickler, master inventor and scholar of... of...' He trailed off again, then snapped his fingers. 'Ah! I was looking for the Adventurers' Guild! I have a brilliant invention that needs field testing, but I can't seem to remember which street it's on. Or which town, actually. This is Thornwick, isn't it?'

Alvenheim's grin widened. An inventor meant patents, prototypes, and most importantly, potential profit. 'My dear Fickler, it seems fate has brought us together! I'm Alvenheim, entrepreneur and navigator extraordinaire. The Adventurers' Guild is just three streets over, but tell me—why waste your talents working for them when we could work for ourselves?' He gestured grandly, as if painting a picture in the air. 'Imagine: Fickler and Alvenheim's Quest Fulfillment Company! We take the jobs, we keep all the profits, no middlemen!'

Fickler's eyes lit up behind his enormous spectacles. 'A partnership! What a splendid idea! I have seventeen different inventions that could revolutionize the questing industry. There's my self-stirring cauldron, my compass that points to whatever you've lost, my boots that remember where you've been—oh! That's what I need right now, those boots! If only I could remember where I put them.' He began rummaging through his satchel, pulling out random items: a rubber chicken, three spoons, a small plant in a pot, and what appeared to be a tiny dragon made of clockwork.

As Fickler continued his search, Alvenheim was already calculating. The gnome was clearly brilliant but scattered—perfect for someone like himself to manage. He'd handle the business side, the negotiations, the money, while Fickler provided the genius. It was foolproof! 'Tell you what, friend,' Alvenheim said smoothly, 'why don't we seal this partnership over lunch? My treat. Then we'll find a proper office, maybe a nice shop front where clients can find us. Something with a view, but not too expensive. Well, maybe very inexpensive. Actually, do you know anyone renting a shed?'

Fickler finally gave up his search and beamed at the elf. 'I like you, Alvenheim! You have vision! And yes, I'm absolutely famished, though I can't remember if I've already eaten lunch today. I might have. Was it Tuesday? What day is it?' As they walked toward the nearest tavern, Fickler suddenly stopped. 'Oh! I just remembered—I do have a workshop! It's in... in...' He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his hat. 'Ah yes, Bramble Lane, number seven. Or was it seventeen? The handwriting is smudged. I think that's my handwriting.'

Over bowls of hearty stew and fresh bread, the unlikely pair hammered out the details of their new enterprise. Alvenheim insisted on a 60-40 split in his favor, claiming his business expertise was worth the extra percentage. Fickler agreed immediately, then forgot what they were discussing and suggested a 50-50 split instead, which Alvenheim graciously accepted with a barely hidden smirk. They shook hands, and Alvenheim noticed the gnome's grip was surprisingly strong for someone so forgetful. Perhaps there was more to Fickler than met the eye.

As the sun began to set over Thornwick, Alvenheim and Fickler stood outside what they hoped was number seven Bramble Lane, looking at a crooked building that leaned slightly to the left. 'This is it!' Fickler announced proudly. 'Our headquarters! Well, my workshop, but now our headquarters! Inside you'll find everything we need: tools, materials, my collection of useful oddities, and—oh dear, I hope I remembered to feed Gerald.' Alvenheim raised an eyebrow. 'Gerald?' Fickler was already unlocking the door. 'My pet gelatinous cube. Lovely fellow, very tidy, eats all the scraps. You'll love him!' As Alvenheim followed the gnome inside, he wondered what exactly he'd gotten himself into. Then again, he thought with a sly smile, boring had never made anyone rich. This partnership was going to be interesting indeed.