[center][h3][color=FFDB00]Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg[/color][/h3][/center]

For the umpteenth time, the wheels of the Chuck Wagon rolled over an overgrown root that encroached on the Emerald Forest’s path, strongly jostling everything -and everyone- inside. It has been long enough since the last root that Gru had just started to relax again, daring to release his grip on his book with one hand as he reached for his mug of tea. The timing couldn’t have been worse; just as his fingers closed around the handle and brought it towards his face for a sip, the whole wagon jerked upward on the right side. Both his book and his mug flew from his hands as he jumped in surprise, spraying tea all over his clothes before both hit the ground close enough to douse the pages with spatters of murky liquid. Instantly aggravated, the wan cheesemonger flushed with anger, his uneven teeth bared like an animal’s.

“BLAST IT!” He seethed, pounding both clenched fists against his armrests before leaping from his chair with such a furious energy that he nearly hit his wagon’s ceiling. He moved toward the front of his mobile home’s forward compartment and smacked the wooden wall. “Can we stop! Hitting! Things! Already! How many’s that, now? If you can’t steer around it, could you lot give me some kind of warning, at least? Just, I dunno, squeak or…something!”

Gru got a chorus of squeaks as the small armies of rats inside all four of the Chuck Wagon’s front wheels addressed his complaints. Most were as angry and indignant as their master was, whether at him for being cantankerous, one another for making mistakes, or themselves for doing a bad job. While Gru couldn’t understand their words, he definitely got the message. “Ughhhh…sorry, lovelies.” With a heavy, groaning sigh, he crouched down to collect his things. “I know the road’s hard, you’re trying your best.” Was he being unreasonable? Probably. Why, then? Well, it wasn’t the book. He hadn’t treated it any better than its previous owners, as its torn, yellowed pages and frayed cover suggested. He might have if he really enjoyed reading it; it chronicled an old war on some other part of the continent, but its author prioritized statistics over drama to the point that it really wasn’t all that diverting to begin with. The mug wasn’t the crux of the matter, either. Forged from staunch metal and bound in insulating leather, it was a stalwart traveler’s companion and could take a beating. Not even the tea vexed him, despite this being the wagon’s ‘dry’ side. Lukewarm and largely depleted, it didn’t soak him or ruin anything, and it hadn’t been tasty enough that the loss would be missed.

“It’s this blasted forest!” Gru interjected suddenly as he rose to his feet. After slapping the book and the mug down on his little desk, he paced around his living quarters’ cramped interior, constantly forced to adjust his balance against the movement of his mobile home. “It’s been [i]days[/i] in this godforsaken place,” he fumed, giving vent at last to all his built-up annoyance. “No farms, no fields, no customers, no quiet. You’d think it’d be a nice peaceful ride through the woods, but no. Just a complete and utter waste of time!” And as if to emphasize his point, the cart suddenly drew to a stop, its wheels -and their occupants- squeaking in frustrated protest. Moaning, Gru could only hang his head. By now, he’d come to expect unexpected stops like this, and they certainly weren’t the fault of his rats. Another breakdown, probably. He tottered over to his little closet and pulled it open. As he selected which jacket to wear, a gang of rats formed up on the top shelf, assembled from both those on break up above and those who’d been working down below. In the center of the mob stood his favorite four: Pepper, Rick, Wensley, and Reggie, all ready to receive and distribute his orders. “Take a breather, loves,” he told them, his tone one of resignation. “My gut tells me we’re gonna be here a while.” As he took his top hat with one hand, he held the other out toward Pepper, who jumped on with a little cheer, ran down his arm, and climbed up onto his head as fast as her little legs could carry her. Gru placed his hat upon his head, checking in the mirror bolted to the back of his closet door that it was perched just right, and as he did more rats climbed up him to cluster together and form his live fur collar. The rest scattered, and with a final sigh Gru shut his closet and headed for the door. “This despicable forest hates us.”

A moment later he stepped out into the cool woodland air. He took a deep breath, then shut and latched the door behind him. After climbing up onto the Chuck Wagon for a good view, he put a handkerchief to his mouth and surveyed the scenery. Sure, the Emerald Forest looked beautiful, with vibrant colors straight from a child’s storybook. But it had been nothing but trouble since the minute the Pilgrims’ Caravan arrived here, just as Gru expected. A tree didn’t grow overnight after all, and a forest this size took far, far longer, during which time it had more than earned its terrible reputation. Something was wrong with this place. The personification Gru applied early was by no means unwarranted–this massive place’s inhospitality wasn’t just undocumented, but tangible. It watched without eyes, listened without ears, and resisted its visitors every step of the way.

An ill wind blew through these trees, carrying ill fortune to all those who entered. Breakdowns, accidents, illnesses. Gru could hear the coughing from here, up and down the stalled caravan. From the beginning he’d been hesitant to send his rats out to forage, and not just because of their typical predators. In a forest that wanted to swallow up the whole caravan, nobody needed to be more careful than its tiniest members. Still, it was only a matter of time until supplies began to dwindle. The paranoia planted throughout the pilgrims would then start to fester. And then what? Only through unity did the caravan survive. It had survived countless hardships already, even in the comparatively brief time Gru had been with it, but only a fool would take that to mean infallibility. Anyone could die. Any day, any time, for any reason. But Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg intended to survive.

No matter what came his way.

News quickly spread of strangers in the pilgrims’ midst. Gru got the details from Hoogarth, a good-natured strigiform traveling with the caravan as a hunter. The owl-man spoke of woodsmen, lost in the woods they’d come to harvest, humbled and on the verge of starvation. Still agitated by the terrifying things they’d witnessed. “Hmph,” Gru huffed, his lip curling. “They must be stupid. Everyone knows these woods are cursed or some such. Why anyone would take such absurd risks is utterly beyond me. And now they’re begging for food? Well, if they’re planning to come crying to me, let's hope they haven’t lost their coin as they did their wits.” Getting the impression Gru was talking more to the rats than him, Hoogarth just shrugged and kept moving to let others know.

It wasn’t long before Gru got another visitor in the form of an airborne phantasm. He watched it flutter toward him on the breeze, hoping it would pass him by, but unfortunately he knew better. It was the work of Althuwin the Navigator, mainstay and fixture of the Pilgrim’s Caravan for as long as just about anyone could remember, and through magical means Althuwin greeted Gru from afar. Predictably, he seemed to be reaching out in hopes of appealing to Gru’s better nature. 

[i]Too bad I don’t have one.[/i] Under no circumstances could Gru afford to part with the fruits of his labor for free. His cheese was an incredibly finite product. Every one aging in his Chuck Wagon’s dry shelves was a masterpiece-in-progress, from six-week-old Muenster to twelve-month-old Parmesan to his famous ‘Cheddar of Rebirth’, made the day he first joined the Pilgrim’s Caravan and aged for well over two years since. When it came to making cheese, time was money. A single empty spot on his shelf was a huge problem. After all, he couldn’t make new cheeses without fresh milk, so by now his production had been stopped dead for an entire week. That had been part of why he’d so vehemently opposed Althuwin’s route through the Emerald Forest, but nobody outweighed the Navigator when it came to matters of opinion. Besides, many of his cheeses were already spoken for, custom made to satisfy orders he’d received. They weren’t for sale, much less charity.

Still, maybe something could be arranged. “Ergh…I’ll consider it. Perhaps we can strike some…ah, bargains.” Even if someone couldn’t pay up front, a savvy trader could find ways to get his due. Right now, these people were too hungry to read fine print. If they could read at all. Gru was a salesman, not a businessman, but he could wheel and deal if needed. And his rats made for excellent debt collectors in a pinch. Althuwin went on to compliment Gru’s cheese, which struck him as backward. [i]Doesn’t he know you’re supposed to flatter before you ask favors? Establish a good mood up front. Otherwise the honeyed words fall flat.[/i] Of course, not everyone could cut it as a salesman. Althuwin also asked about Gru’s methods. The cheesemonger sprouted a thin smile. “Trade secret, I’m afraid.” He respected -and to an extent needed- Althuwin as a customer, but they weren’t friends. One gave the other money, and the other gave the one food. Besides, Althuwin had a ‘way of speaking’ that Gru didn’t quite like. This wasn’t the first time that the old man had asked how the proverbial sausage was made. Sometimes Gru wondered if the Navigator knew things that he shouldn’t. As the wind sprite left, he watched a handful of pilgrims arming themselves for an expedition off the beaten path. [i]There are some secrets that should stay buried,[/i] he thought, peering warily through the ill-omened verdure.