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

Gru was pleased to hear his client’s assent to his suggestion. ‘Quality and integrity’ were exactly the virtues Gru intended to cultivate, and he enjoyed hearing them recognized. Someone else might have balked at the idea of just handing a valuable item over to someone else (let alone someone like Gru) for safekeeping at the drop of a hat, but Knossos didn’t let any petty suspicions or compunctions get in the way of an arrangement that best suited everybody. When there were deals to be struck, there wasn’t any use beating around the bush, and the Dreamwalker knew it. When it came to business, there were few things more valuable than trust; that was something money couldn’t. He was right to place his in Gru.

In fact, Knossos seemed to be in such good spirits that he proceeded to invite the cheesemonger to an impromptu wine tasting. A curious smile spread across his cheeks, his eyes instinctively narrowed. This kind of cordial gesture very seldom graced Gru’s doorstep–even ’once in a blue moon’ might be too generous a turn of phrase. The cheesemonger didn’t particularly relish socializing, nor did he prize the Dreamwalker’s friendship as much as his coinpurse, but friendship wasn’t the only reason to drink with someone. In the business world, he knew, such activities often heralded or celebrated a significant deal or partnership. One wheel of cheese didn’t make for a magnificent exchange, necessarily, but it was something. Besides, sampling wine sounded like a gentlemanly thing to do, and Gru did so enjoy affecting such a persona. 

After a moment Knossos went to make his way elsewhere, but he didn’t leave without a parting comment about the alcohol. If he looked back while leaving, the Dreamwalker might have been surprised to see a look of muted indignation on Gru’s face. [i]Did I not give my word that I wouldn’t siphon off much as a drop of wine? I said I wouldn’t have it, so I won’t have it.[/i] Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg wasn’t a man who probed for favors beneath a veil of honeyed words. He made guarantees. [i]My word is my bond. Does he think I’m not good enough to keep it? That I’m some boozehound angling for a tipple? Or does he hope to wheedle a better deal out of me once I’m in my cups?[/i] Well, forget that. For evening drinks, tea would serve just as well. A scholarly gentleman preferred tea anyway, to stimulate the mind. If there were any leftovers, they belonged wholly to Knossos, and he could do with them whatever he pleased. [i]Spill it in the mud, for all I care![/i] Of course, Gru didn’t dare speak aloud any of these thoughts. The bargain hadn’t yet been struck, after all. Until the cold, timeless, indefatigable weight of coin greased his palm, his lips were sealed. “...Good day, Mr. Dreamwalker.”

Once Knossos left, Gru could attend to other matters. As much as he wanted to get started on his new project straight away, the stuff he’d told Knossos had been no exaggeration. His whole operation hinged on fresh ingredients. Time loved cheese, but it hated milk with a passion, and his nose could detect spoiled product a mile away. He rose to his feet and began to pace along the roof of his wagon, one hand at his chin as he grappled with the current situation, the other closed around a rat whose fuzzy head he stroked with his thumb. In any other situation, he would’ve been happy to leave the Caravan behind and forge ahead until he found civilization. He had the means and provisions after all, not to mention ample recourse should he need to defend himself. Perhaps the others might even appreciate his work as a scout. But in the Emerald Forest, that possibility seemed woefully slim. This trail was narrow, and even if he and his rats could navigate the Chuck Wagon around all the other Pilgrims and their carriages, they were liable to get stuck in the tangled margins. [i]I need to get closer to the front,[/i] he groaned internally, making a mental note. Plus, he got the distinct impression that the Emerald Forest wasn’t somewhere someone wanted to be alone in. Technically he’d never really be alone so long as he had his rats, but ‘safety in numbers’ was an axiom for a reason. Maybe the only reason why the Caravan hadn’t already succumbed to this accursed place’s attrition.

“Aha!” A few moments later, Gru extended one finger into the air, and the rat in his fist climbed out onto his knuckles as if to see what the fuss was. “If it’s for milk, I may not have to travel as far as I thought,” he explained to her. She just peered at him with round black eyes, the perfect audience. “They may not be as lovely as my darlings, but there are other beasts within the Caravan itself. And not just horses, oh no.” He picked up the pace, turning his gaze rather afield as he searched the stalled convoy. Surely someone had an animal whose milk would make good cheese. A cow would be best, since their milk is the most versatile, well-liked, and mild, but he’d happily accept a goat. A sheep. He’d even take a camel, if there happened to be any sojourners from the great deserts nowadays. Then again, making cheese with camel milk was supposed to be impossible due to its resistance to bovine rennet. No amount of magic could make cheese if he couldn’t create curds to begin with. It didn't matter though, since for all his searching, he couldn’t see any camels. Or sheep for that matter. Or goats, much less cows. Only…

…A yak.

His eyes had been drawn by the commotion of two women attempting to disentangle a cart from some roots or briars. [i]No doubt the fate of my own wagon if I didn’t think things through,[/i] he mused. At first the sight of the great shaggy beast filled Gru with hope, but after he’d set his sights on it, another glance at the women jogged his memory, and the realization made his excitement shrivel up like a squeezed grape. He’d met Lynn only briefly, not even long enough to really internalize her name, but he’d received a frosty reception. She did not like the look of him, which he didn’t appreciate, and she did not like his rats, which he disliked quite a lot, actually. No doubt as a result of some past trauma, she’d clearly resolved to never trust or depend on someone again, and cling tight to the one thing that mattered the most to her. Gru could picture the poor woman turning up her nose at the ratty cheesemonger, convinced he’d come to take the food from her son’s very mouth, and lay a protective arm across her son’s shoulders. [i]Keep your ill-gotten gold,[/i] she’d declare, every inch the heroic pauper telling off the rich, encroaching scumbag. [i]I’ve got everything I need right here.[/i] It almost made him sick. Was he really that bad, that every interaction with someone involved getting over a massive, built-in hurdle? People might spit on rats as filthy vermin, but if treated well they were actually quite clean, intelligent, and affectionate. Curling his lip, Gru turned away and stalked back toward the front of the Chuck Wagon. Not everyone could see the true value in things.

“Mr. Yarg? Hello?”

Taken by surprise, Gru looked down to discover a small crowd by his wagon. They all looked tired, torn up, haunted. [i]The lost souls.[/i] Swallowing, he carefully added his rat back to his collar and approached the edge of the roof, where he stood with his hands in his pockets. “What business have you with Mr. Yarg?”

One of them stepped forward. “We’ve been lost, hungry for days. They told us you would give us food.”

Gru did not bother to hide his grimace as his eyes widened. [i]Of course they would.[/i] Two, four, six, seven hungry mouths to feed. Some looked pleading. Others expectant. They’d been starved enough before someone raised their hopes, and now they were famished. Desperate people were always apt to do something unwise, making for high risk, but suitably high reward. Hopefully their situation would make them inclined to think with their stomachs rather than their minds–or their fists, for that matter.

“I see,” Gru said, seating himself on the edge of his wagon’s roof. At the negotiating table, whoever looked down upon the other had a distinct advantage. “Well, this isn’t a charity, you understand. But given the circumstances, I think you’ll find my terms more than reasonable.” With a smirk the cheesemonger doffed his top hat, revealing Pepper beneath it, who doffed her tiny hat in kind. “Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg, at your service.”