“I take care of the knives,” they reply. “Polish ’em, sharpen ’em, clean ’em, replace ’em when they get too rusty… if it’s gotta do with knives, I’m the one who does it.”
That’s so weird you feel like you’re walking into a trap somehow by questioning it.
“What do they need knives for at a brewery?” you ask.
“Workers gotta eat sometime,” the grebling replies calmly. “And I make sure they got good knives for doin’ it. Forks and spoons too, but the knives are the real high point.”
“They provide meals on-site?” you ask.
“Well, it helps Mr. Redlake get a sense of what meals go well with the drinks, as I understand it,” the grebling replies. “Why hire more workers to do that when the ones you’ve got will be happy to for a free lunch?”
“And is the knife you’ve got there one of Mr. Redlake’s?” you ask.
“Nope. This one’s my own. Paid for with my own money.”
“Why did you bring it here?”
They give you a vaguely threatening look.
“Look, mister. Not every human is willing to have a friendly conversation with a grebling. This is for defending myself.”
“Doesn’t look like a weapon,” you note.
“It’s not really meant as one, but for the most part, a quick cut is enough to let me get away. It’s for defense, not offense.”
Seems to you it’s more meant for whittling. But you don’t know why they’d hide that. You’re not even sure if they’re a real employee… but if not, why come up with such a weird excuse instead of just making up a more standard brewery job?
And does it even matter right now? You’re not sure it does unless they’re somehow tied to the sabotage. Hells, right now you’re not sure what you even want from this conversation. So you take a moment to think about that before continuing.
You don’t have a dog in this fight, you’re not even from this time, might as well come out and ask him what he was whittling