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

From his vantage point atop his caravan, Gru watched the people of the Pilgrims’ Caravan go about their business. He didn’t bother to compose any actual critiques of their activities, but he made sure to adopt an appropriately unamused, scrutinizing look as he sat there that seemed to say ‘well, get to it then’ to everyone who passed him. Together, his posture and expression made it abundantly clear that he had no plans to help resolve this dilemma, whatever its cause might be, and that this profound waste of time had him feeling very put-upon. It went without saying that everyone in the whole convoy would be better off getting out of this execrable Emerald Forest as soon as possible; he simply intended to showcase the misery of this situation firsthand, and spur everyone on all the faster.

Of course, the others didn’t need that much encouragement to begin with. Everyone could feel the sickness festering within the Caravan, the steady depletion of supplies, and the worsening communal mood as they walked up and down the chain of beasts and wagons, doing what little they could to get the ball rolling again. He spotted a familiar painted pelt hustling toward the head of the Caravan. As swift as Malleck was, he didn’t hesitate to wave to Gru as he passed, bound perhaps for the Navigator to look into the situation going forward. Gru gave a stiff nod back. Any well-to-do gentleman could appreciate the arts, so while he’d initially disdained Malleck as a freeloader, he’d eventually come around and acknowledged the beastman as a skilled minstrel. Still, having the appearance of an animal didn’t mean he had one’s essence, and Gru had extended Malleck neither his friendship nor patronage. Given current events, it would be a miracle indeed if the painted dog managed to bring him cheer. Not long after, Gru beheld a rarer sight: an individual quintessential to the Caravan, trusted and needed by all sooner or later. He’d never memorized the smith’s name (‘Master Dwarf’ worked well enough when soliciting business) but he’d worked with Gadri whenever his wagon or cheese-making equipment needed metallurgical upkeep. For that reason, Gadri was one of the few who’d ever been inside the Chuck Wagon, making their testimony important if someone started indulging baseless suspicions. For the smith to leave their mobile forge behind to try and expedite this delay, things must be even worse than Gru thought.

Only after another passer-by showed up did Gru have occasion to speak, though. When the genial, gray-haired eccentric greeted him, the cheesemonger turned his way with a thin smile. Manners seemed hard to come by these days, and common courtesy was anything but, so it pleased him to answer politeness in kind when it came from a valued customer. “And a very good day to you, Mr. Dreamwalker.” Whether giving or receiving, names were important. When conducting business, Gru always opted for the professionalism of using a last name, or cheekily substituting a title for one if applicable. As such, most knew him as ‘Mr. Yarg’, or even less cordially, just ‘Yarg’. Since he always joked that only friends would call him ‘Gry’, few addressed him on a first-name basis. Knossos was among the few. “Here to make a purchase, perhaps? I find nothing takes the edge off of a miserable day like this quite like sinking your teeth into a rich, tender, full-flavored wedge of cheese.”

The occultist did have a request, albeit of a more uncommon kind. At the mention of Ilgirian Red, Gru perked up slightly, stroking his whiskers as he cracked an intrigued smile that showed just the faintest hint of his crooked teeth. “An infusion, hmm? Well, you’ve come to the right place Mr. Dreamwalker. For a cheesemaker of my caliber, it’s certainly possible…” His eyes narrowed slightly as he pursed his lips, a hint of his general annoyance allowed to seep through in a way that invited sympathy. Taking a rat from his collar, he began to stroke its back and scratch its sides, making it giggle. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid there’s a little…snag. For the chemical processes to proceed as they must, the wine infusion must occur in the curd stage, before the cheese is brined, introduced to mold, and aged. I’m sure I need not spell it out for someone as keen as yourself, but with no fresh milk for over a week now, my entire cheesemaking enterprise has tragically stopped dead.”

Gru shook his head mournfully. “Most regrettable, I think you’ll agree.” He then put on his most determined face, his index finger raised. “Rest assured, however, that once I obtain fresh ingredients, I will be able to do all you’ve asked and more. And since you’re supplying the wine, why, I’ll even infuse it at no additional cost. A custom ‘Ubriaco Ilgirio’, how does that sound?” Gru tempted his fingers, peering at Knossos. “If you like, I can take the bottle off your hands so that it’s on hand the moment I’m able to begin. Rest assured it will be safe and secure in my rack–and that I’d never dream of appropriating any for myself, of course.”

In a couple parts of the Caravan, pilgrims were gearing up to leave the safety of the stopped convoy and brave the Emerald Forest itself. Like mice jumping headfirst into the lion’s maw. Gru tried not to let them distract him. Even if the fools didn’t end up like those unfortunate loggers, forging into these uncanny woods was just asking for trouble.