If one were to ask, I could not readily offer any single, specific reason for the attraction. Perhaps it is the way he infuriates, confounds, and then, makes me laugh, all within the span of the same few seconds. Hisix is logical, patient and brilliant, yet he often misses the obvious path which common sense might render apparent to you or me. He is a worrier, a planner and an organizer, who is driven by a need to understand and justify the reasons for everything around him. He is self-centered, to a fault, but not out of malice or arrogance. In fact, he has a considerably more difficult time trusting others than I do . . . which is saying a lot. His habitual questioning and debating of meaningless matters are enough to drive a sober man to drink. Yet, I find his child-like inquisitiveness endearing in a way that baffles even me.

Hisix believes he is hard and cynical, yet he consistently looks beyond the darkness in others, wondering what they might have become, given the opportunity for another life, in another time or place. Perhaps this, more than anything else, draws me to this extraordinary gnome wizard. For if he can pierce the blackest veil of the most inconsequential of strangers, how much more absolution would he be willing to offer someone he truly loves.

– Shiretha Tzylxariette

Just days ago, the oppressive heat of late summer finally seemed to give way to the cooler clime of the approaching autumn. But, on this evening, despite the fact the sun had set hours ago, the mugginess of the day remained, thick and heavy in the air, making the long trek to the western end of the pungent, rat-infested Belge far more miserable than it might have otherwise been.

Two slender figures – a gnome and a dark elf – strode, side by side down Trader's Lane; a wide, neglected cart road used primarily by low-end merchants to haul goods in and out of the West end open-air market. Although average in height, the drow, Shiretha Tzylxariette, appeared much taller due to her slight frame and the considerably smaller figure at her side. Despite the fact that her race was both feared and mistrusted by other races, it was unlikely that any passerby would give her a second glance . . . and most would not even take note of her presence. The enchanted Cloak of Shadows she wore draped about her shoulders made it difficult to focus on her in full sunlight, but in the deep darkness of an evening such as this, almost anyone would be hard pressed to see her, even if she passed close by. But . . . if someone was perceptive enough to do so, they would be more than impressed, for Shiretha moved as if a phantom in a dream, with the exquisite flowing grace of gossamer floating on the lightest of breezes. Each step, each elegant movement, gliding into the next as if she drifted, rather than stepped, along the broken, uneven stonework of the neglected old road.

The gnome, on the other hand, clumped along, taking small choppy steps at a quickened pace, in an awkward attempt to match the movement and speed of his Drow companion. Hisix Odafi Mepucamp Frinzwillen IV was not much for speed or stealth, and the only acrobatic move he could execute with any precision was a somersault that concluded with him flat on his back, looking straight up at the sky . . . which, of course, wasn't overly useful in any circumstance, at any time in history. However, Hisix did possess something he considered more valuable than strength or agility or gracefulness or stealth. Hisix owned a mind sharper than a razor and more focused than the hawk-eyes of a master archer. Hisix was keenly observant and knew a great number of things. He could calculate percentages and probabilities in an instant and arrive at educated guesses for the most probable outcomes of nearly any situation . . . depending, of course, on the number of knowns and the number of variables. But mostly, Hisix used his exceptional intellect to understand and manipulate raw, arcane energy. Hisix was a wizard – an illusionist primarily – but he also possessed a decent grasp of evocation, conjuration, transmutation, as well as the odd spell from several other schools of study.

"Well, in retrospect, I have to admit, it certainly was amusing," said Shiretha in a flat, even tone. Hisix continued clomping along as if he hadn't heard a thing. "Yup. That was quite a time we had this afternoon," she said. "And we now have the book, so I guess it all worked out for the best." This time, she stopped walking, making Hisix come to a halt as well.

Hisix sighed. "What do you want me to say, Shiretha? I thought our seemingly endless discussion over dinner had thoroughly beaten this particular subject to death. No, it didn't go as planned."

"It wasn't dinner. It was a piece of meat on a wooden skewer, purchased from a filthy street vendor on the docks. That barely counts as food. I'm not even sure it was meat . . . and it certainly wasn't dinner. And I told you Ratcher might send orcs, and that if he did, it wasn't going to go well. But, of course, you already considered all the outcomes and knew that, or you wouldn't have insisted I come along."

Hisix contemplated at least five responses before settling on "Possible outcomes. But yes, I knew there was a fair probability of the exchange heading straight into the shitter."

"Which, of course, it absolutely did."

"Yup. You are correct, my dear. It certainly did. Can we please be done with this?"

Beneath an impenetrable layer of shadow that shielded the open hood of her enchanted cloak, Shiretha wrinkled her unseen nose in response to the absolutely horrid smell which, she had come to realize, permeated every street and alleyway in the Belge. "How is it that we spend so much of our time in this wretched part of the city, anyway?" she asked, glancing around at the dismal surroundings.

"Simple," answered the gnome, starting forward again. "This extremely crappy part of Thal Doren seems to be the best place to acquire the things I need, at a price I can afford".

"That's because they are stolen. People in the Belge sell things cheaply because they want to get rid of them before they get caught."

Hisix chuckled. "That, my dear, is only an assumption."

Shiretha frowned a hidden frown. "Psssshhhhht. It's as much of an assumption as me stating that you are a gnome."

Hisix continued to smile in amusement at the prospect of engaging in another debate where the only side available was the losing one. "Are you certain I am a gnome? I am, after all, an illusionist of no little means."

Shiretha shook her head, annoyed at herself for being sucked into yet another silly deliberation with a gnome who enjoyed debating almost as much as he did taller women. "Yes . . . you are indeed an illusionist. A gnome illusionist. And if you attempt to continue this absurd conversation, I am going turn directly around and head back to the inn . . . and you can go off and purchase the ring on your own. Unless, of course, you need me because you already know this exchange is gonna head straight into the shitter as well . . . "

Hisix quickly calculated several responses that would lead to nine specific outcomes. The only response even remotely favorable was no response at all. So wisely, Hisix clenched his jaw and didn't say a thing.

The silence between them was destined to be short lived. Hisix knew Shiretha would not remain quiet for long, especially since there was a point to make and questions he had yet to sufficiently answer. Not that his answers, no matter how discreet or unfulfilling, would alter their plans. Shiretha was perfectly fine with entering headlong into situations she was not fully informed about – much more so than he would ever be. She was, in fact, a master improviser . . . and as long as she understood the ultimate goal, she could be counted on to help him reach it, no matter the obstacles. Shiretha had spent most of her life as an agent of entropy, and she had thrived for more than a century in a subterranean world committed to the impractical doctrines of controlled chaos. In fact, it was a bit of an understatement to say that Shiretha excelled at dealing with unpredictable and dangerous situations. True, her solutions often involved the wickedly sharp blade she wore upon her back, but so far, the only people he had seen her kill deserved every bit of the karma she had thrust up between their ribs.

"So the ring has to be picked up here in the Belge then?" Shiretha asked.

And there it was . . . Hisix smirked, but made no reply.

"Just in the Belge? Not anywhere else in this spectacularly gargantuan city of thirty-five thousand or so inhabitants . . . this city full of splendid night spots and grand eateries that serve actual edible food on clean plates – or even just actual plates – and streets without giant potholes that don't perpetually smell like urine . . . and quaint wooden gazebos built on bridges that cross bubbling springs . . . charming little streams that wind their way through gardens filled with bright, colorful flowers? Not in an upscale neighborhood like Juantin's Spring or Elos Milaró, where people live in houses that aren't leaning pitifully to one side or the other and steadily crumbling into dust? Not in one of those places . . . places like the North Ogden Market that we passed yesterday, places like that . . . where upstanding merchants sell upstanding goods while standing on a fairly clean, urine-free street that doesn't stink like a rotting corpse is hidden somewhere just below his feet? Not any of those places . . . just right here in the stinking Belge?"

Hisix continued walking but turned his gaze to meet the spot Shiretha's lovely crimson eyes would have been if they weren't so well hidden beneath the magical darkness of her hood. "Yes. Yes, already. It's here in the Belge. Just here. Nowhere else. Enchanted rings are not just found anywhere in Thal Doren. In fact, there are very few places one can purchase even the most meager of enchanted items. So, in order to procure this specific ring, we have to come here."

"To the Belge?"

"Yes, Shiretha. To the Belge."

"Because . . . "

"Because that's where I was instructed to meet the seller."

"Here in the Belge."

"Yes. I just said that. Here. In the Belge."

"Because . . ."

"Because that's where the ring is!"

"Because its stolen."

Hisix sighed. "And because it's stolen."

It was Shiretha's turn to smirk. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Hisix mentally shook his head. "You have no idea."

Shiretha remained silent after that but retained her glib grin most of the way across the remaining few streets of the slum. Hisix couldn't actually see it of course, but he had no doubt it was there.

In relatively short time, the two companions found themselves standing before the largest of three old, dilapidated wooden houses situated at the end of a long, curving cul-de-sac called Grim Arbor Circle. Like many of the streets and avenues renamed after the collapse of the Jurcoralan Empire, Grim Arbor Circle had probably been so named for some wealthy supporter of the Assembly, or some minor hero of the Verdanti Uprising. But, whatever the original intent was, the street's name was woefully appropriate. Everything about the location screamed the word grim. Of course it also screamed garbage and rot and poverty and sadness and vomit . . . but Grim was, indeed, a fitting name. Not long ago there were several other houses on the cul-de-sac, but they had recently burned down in a deadly fire. Four people died during the blaze and few others escaped with horrible burns they would wear for the rest of their lives.

All of the run-down domiciles in this area of the Belge were owned by a horrible little excuse for a halfling named Herbedin Flek. Stories abounded of Flek's cruelty and lack of empathy for anyone failing to pay their rent on time. One account tells of Flek's harsh dealings with two elderly sisters – both widows – who had missed a month's rent payment. Instead of addressing the situation with the elderly tenants, Flek waited several weeks, until the weather turned and the temperature plummeted. Then, during a particularly nasty hailstorm, Flek had his goons drag the sisters out of their beds in the dead of night and deposit them onto the ice-laden street. Apparently, one of the sisters died during the struggle. The other succumbed to pneumonia a few days later. Flek auctioned off the sisters' meager belongings to recover his rent, late fees and liberally applied interest. Then, in less than a week, he rented out the battered old flat to another customer at nearly double the rate.

Ironically, rumor had it that the fire which had burned down several of his buildings, was started by the Geyaṁ Panja . . . as a reminder for Flek to pay his own debts on time.

Shiretha stood before the stoop of the front entryway and pulled back her hood, allowing a tangle of wispy, snow-white hair to fall freely about her shoulders. Her bright red eyes darted up and down the front of the two-story house, searching for anything out of place . . . which, in this neighborhood, was just about everything. "And exactly who are we supposed to meet here? Does this mysterious seller of stolen magic rings have a name?"

Hisix ignored his lovely companion's diminutive dig and shrugged, then folded his arms across his chest, taking note of the building's curious construction and odd features. "The name wasn't provided and I certainly wasn't going to be discourteous enough to ask. We were given a location . . . and so, here we are."

Although upon first glance the primarily wooden house seemed quite ancient and in near shambles, Hisix quickly saw through the well-constructed facade. Even with just a very basic knowledge of carpentry, engineering, architecture and masonry, he discerned that the house's general overall exterior had been purposely altered to appear decrepit and derelict. And after several minutes of careful consideration, the gnome came to the conclusion that the structure was, in fact, solid, well-constructed and probably no more than four or five years old.

The doorframe of the front entrance was particularly well made and doubly reinforced . . . undoubtedly with metal. The door itself was also reinforced and boasted a pair of sturdy – and likely expensive – locking mechanisms – one keyed and one a deadbolt. Hisix assumed it was barred on the inside as well. Both the ground floor and the second had a number of small, rectangular windows . . . and every one of them was heavily shuttered and boarded up.

"I'm not sure we should be standing this close. It appears the place could collapse at any moment," said Shiretha. "If someone actually lives here, they should consider moving. And why do you think they boarded up all the windows?"

Hisix didn't hesitate. "Vampire."

Shiretha sighed. "A vampire? Really? A vampire? A blood-sucking undead creature of the night who chooses to live in squalor and make his living selling stolen goods to smartass gnomes? That kind of vampire?"

Hisix nodded. "Sounds about right."

"Ilxurra teaches us that nonsense freely spouted, in generous amounts, will eventually and permanently addle one's brain."

"I think Ilxurra has nonsense confused with alcohol. And . . . I also think you just made that up."

Now it was Shiretha's turn to shrug. "Maybe."

Hisix ran his slender fingers through a messy mop of hair, pushing lengths of curly brown strands out from in front of his eyes. "Truth be told, my dearest Shiretha . . . Nothing here is as it seems. This building only appears ready to topple over when it is, in fact, quite a sturdy little bastion of secluded privacy. And I have no doubt that whoever resides within this place does not live in any amount of squalor."

"So you're still going with vampire, then?"

Hisix chuckled. "I suppose it's a possibility . . . but I wouldn't bet on it. It is more likely that whoever lives here wants to remain out of the public eye . . . or possibly just avoid being noticed by any official authorities."

"Probably because of the whole selling stolen magic rings thing . . ."

Hisix rolled his eyes. Shiretha wasn't going to let it go . . . at least for a good day or two. "Well, whoever is in there is expecting us, so . . ."

The gnome climbed the two small steps of the stoop and moved ahead to the door, kicking out three times, using the iron-braced toe of his boot to announce their arrival.

Shiretha casually hopped up the stairs, landing softly and noiselessly on Hisix's right. If she had to use her sword, she wanted to be able to swing away freely, without removing the gnome's head in the process.

"Hisix my darling . . ."

"Yes, Shiretha my love?"

"If a vampire actually answers this door, I'm taking it out before it can even say boo."

Hisix let a wide grin spread across his narrow face. "I wouldn't have it any other way."