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

Soon after his rats’ departure, Gru settled the last of his arrangements with the hungry unfortunates who’d been bade to seek him out. A few of them withheld their trust, despite their circumstances, believing that they could get a better deal elsewhere that wouldn’t involve an ambiguous imposition on their future. They’d already dispersed to seek more straightforward charity from someone else in the Caravan, which suited Gru just fine. With his appearance, mannerisms, and predisposition for shady legalese, he could repel even those who stood to get something from him for free, if that was his intention. Given his current situation, he couldn’t afford to hand out cheeses even if he wanted to. A merchant with no stock, after all, was no merchant at all.

As the largely-illiterate woodsmen trickled away, mostly unsatisfied and uncertain but now inextricably bound to the wily cheesemonger, Gru was left idle. The Caravan remained at a standstill, which frustrated him to no end. How long had it been now, an hour? As a maker and curator of cheeses, Gru thought of himself as a patient man, but in the Emerald Forest he just couldn’t rest easy. Fitful nights and monotonous days had haunted him since the wagon train first entered this place, and the sensation of pointless languishing had really worn down his composure. He already harbored a sour mood, stewing quietly as he conducted his business, but now the deployment of so many rats left him nervous and fidgety. Waiting for them to return safely was torture, and given the unnatural event he’d sent them to investigate, he’d probably made a mistake. “Should’ve gone with ‘em,” he muttered, full of regret. Why in the world did he choose to stay behind and toy with those bumpkins, reducing his stocks without tangible benefit, when his darlings’ safety came first and foremost?

Just as Gru was making up his mind to follow in his scouting party’s little footsteps with a rat platoon of his own, his table and chair ferried back into Chuck Wagon, someone else intruded upon his cheesy dominion. When he heard Siri, he squinted as he smiled. “Another valued customer,” he murmured through his teeth. Her request prompted him to tent his hands, his expression vexed.

“[i]Gorge[/i] you? Why, I would never. My cheese isn’t simple fare for mindless feasting or indulgent gluttony. No, it is something to be savored and appreciated by a discerning palette. Quality over quantity, you understand. Something akin to an art form, all the more precious for its inherent temporariness…”

Trailing off suddenly, Gru put a hand to his forehead, as if mortified. “Oh, how silly of me. You must have meant [i]gouge[/i]. And if that’s the case, truly you wound me, madam. I never charge unfairly or arbitrarily for my goods. If my prices seem high, it is because of the time and effort put into each and every product to ensure the Yarg quality guarantee. Quite a bit of effort goes into determining my prices, accounting for a multitude of factors…including supply. When supply is low, madam, prices rise, and I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a time of great shortage. I can count the number of non-bespoke cheeses that remain on one hand.” He held up four fingers for emphasis. “Still, I may have something in your price range. I believe I have a wedge left over from a small wheel of young boerenkaas gouda that I myself enjoyed yesterday. Only so much could fit in my melting pot, you see. I planned to have the rest myself, but for my customers, anything. Nutty, toasty, richly flavored…and yours, for a very reasonable price.” Gru crossed his arms, awaiting the old woman’s response.