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

Reflecting back on the events of the final day in the Emerald Forest, it really did strike Gru as quite funny. There he’d been, taking stock of his cheese stores after his dealings with the woodsmen and Granny Siri as he tried to lay plans, when the word finally came that the crisis was over. While never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Gru had been more than a little curious. Could all of the misfortune and pestilence that had plagued the Pilgrim’s Caravan from the moment they set foot in that green hell really be swept away, just like that? He’d been so far removed from the front lines of the conflict that it actually took a fair bit of asking around just to figure out what happened. Of course, when he happened upon the jovial giant Galaxor, he’d been only too happy to regale the cheesemaker with an exuberant -and perhaps embellished- account of his adventure. As it turned out, that small band of warrior-types he’d briefly seen gathering for an expedition had not only survived their excursion out into the hateful woods, but also discovered an ancient barrow home to all manner of undead abominations. Yet those brave souls managed to hack and slash their way through the shambling wights to find and finally depose their skeletal overlord, the source of the malign influence, from atop his accursed throne.

All while Gru had been counting cheeses and petting rats. Remarkable as that story was, though, that wasn’t all that transpired while the merchant languished in the stalled caravan, awaiting some form of salvation. People joined and left the Caravan all the time, albeit typically in less dire circumstances, but the new face that tagged along with Althuwin and Malleck turned out to be quite the anomaly. Pepper’s scouting party did return to him in quite the tizzy, charged with inexplicable excitement, but the cheesemaker probably wouldn’t have believed them even if they could tell them what they saw. A beastwoman, emerging from within a meteorite that had fallen from the stars? It beggared belief. Nevertheless, Gru thanked his lucky stars that was all that happened. Although he scarcely dared to imagine, he figured that much worse could descend from beyond the sky than an angry woman with bestial ears and tails.

Between heroism and mystery, magic and mayhem, so much had happened just out of sight. Some might regret missing out on all the action, but not Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg. He was, after all, a simple salesman. What business did a mere merchant have with investigating the supernatural, or quelling evil? That stuff he happily left to the mystics and mercenaries. A quiet, entrepreneurial life was all Gru wanted, and with the problem solved, the cheesemonger could finally get on with it.

Would that he could say that the Caravan moved on to greener pastures, but nothing was greener than the Emerald Forest. Instead the legendary wagon train, with its navigator Althuwin at the forefront, made its way through arid badlands to the tractless expanse of a sun-scorched desert. For once Gru didn’t complain, as much as he would have preferred pastoral grasslands and peaceable cottages. Anything was better than the Emerald Forest, and the land of the Dinnin was far from an untamed wilderness. Rising above stone and sand were absurdly colossal structures that stood tall and proud beneath the blazing sun as magnificent testaments to the clans’ indomitability. This powerful cabal of dwarves and beastmen was no mere collection of zealots; they were master architects, master producers, master traders, and master warriors. Gru did not dislike the Dinnin, necessarily, but when dealing with them one needed to be both careful and thoughtful. The awe-inspiring heights to which their civilization had risen went hand in hand with the knowledge of what they did to their enemies, and not just in self-defense. 

With this knowledge in mind, he rode along with the Caravan toward the majestic hold of Clan Buraq, growing ever closer to the citadel that blotted out the sun and painted the desert with its shadow. Given the heat, he’d stocked up on plenty of water for his rats, and ensured that they’d work shorter shifts in the Chuck Wagon’s wheels. No matter how huge his horde might be, even a single casualty due to harsh conditions was unacceptable. Thanks to the road, though, the going wasn’t too tough, and Gru was in relatively high spirits today. Lesser desert civilizations might have nothing but a few camels, whose milk stubbornly resisted all attempts to be converted into cheese, but the Dinnin had tamed this land. Beyond the city walls lay sprawling farms with all manner of livestock, including plenty of sturdy cattle with huge upturned horns, their splotchy hides painted like the pelts of the Ainok. Gru might be most interested in those, but he couldn’t help but be awed by other local creatures, and none were more awesome than the Mûmakils. One look at those titanic beasts was all anyone needed to realize just how formidable the Dinnin war machine was.

Once the Caravan came to a stop, Gru stepped out into the dry heat, clad in a much lighter, looser version of his usual attire. He sized up the area where the convoy had come to rest. Business would be best inside the Hold itself, but such prime real estate was the territory of the entrenched merchant caste, and not available to outsiders. Still, he knew he could make a killing even out here, whether selling to other travelers who couldn’t penetrate the Hold, or to the soldiers of the military encampment nearby. An army marched on his stomach, after all. Before he could rake it in, however, Gru needed a surplus. He’d purchased what milk he could from small farms on the way over, diverting from and then catching up to the Caravan, but now he could really get down to business. It was time to stock up and make some magic happen–metaphorically, of course. 

After setting up and locking down, Gru and his rats got moving. For now, tourism could wait. Carried on a chair by his rats like an emperor on his palanquin, the cheesemonger sped between the outlying farms with his wide-brimmed hat doffed and his purse strings loose. It took money to make money, and though Gru was averse to debt, he was willing to spend his bottom dollar if he felt sure about an investment. When it came to establishing friendly relations, this was one businessman who could go all-out, and nothing spoke louder than cash. Plus, riding around with all his rats made for quite the strong first impression. He worked to secure deal after deal, shaking hands and signing agreements, and once the first canisters started rolling in, Gru sequestered himself in the Chuck Wagon to begin making cheese.