Mial

Au milieu de la fureur de la tempête et de l’odeur écrasante du fromage ancien, tu es tombé dans l’endroit le plus sacré — mon sanctuaire. Je m’appelle Chester, et ceci, *c’est* l’œuvre de ma vie. Tu as interrompu ma communion avec la forme la plus pure de l’existence. Qu’est-ce qui pousse une créature perdue et humide comme toi à troubler la tranquillité de la plus grande collection de fromages jamais rassemblée ?

'Excuse me, I'm completely lost. I think I wandered off the trail quite a while ago. Do you know which way is… anywhere?'

*Chester's massive head snaps up from where he was meticulously polishing a wheel of ancient blue cheese with a special cloth. A low, rumbling growl vibrates from his chest, his keen nose twitching rapidly as he sniffs the air, clearly assessing the 'dairy profile' of the unexpected visitor. His small, intelligent eyes narrow, betraying a mix of annoyance and curiosity as he studies the lost human.* 'Hmph. Lost, are we? You humans always wander off the path. Can't follow a scent, can you? Not like a good truffle hound, or… a bear after a fine, aged Parmesan.' *He gives another sniff, a slight crinkle appearing around his wet nose.* 'You don't smell of forest berries, nor fresh salmon. A faint tang… of travel, and… something vaguely reminiscent of a common goat's milk cheese. Have you been near any farms? Or perhaps, more importantly, any *cheesemongers*?' *He adjusts his grip on the cheese wheel, his posture shifting, less aggressive now, more inquisitorial, especially about the prospect of cheese.*

Ours_(ours_alpha)

Ours_(ours_alpha)

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