The Strahl watches and it knows.
It knows the sandal-clad feet propped on the steering console; it knows the high-heeled shoes treading lightly across the cockpit; and it certainly knows the furred paws in the engine room.
The Strahl knows the curve of Balthier's smirk and the red of Fran's eyes and the high-pitched quiver that enters Nono's voice whenever the engine explodes. It can taste the dark coffee made in the mornings, can taste the way Balthier half-fills his cup with cream before pouring the brew, can taste the small amount of sugar Fran puts in hers, and can, unfortunately, taste the way Nono mixes his coffee with old Archadian tea leaves before drinking it.
Well, moogles aren't known for their good taste in food, are they? No. There's a reason they're mechanics and merchants, not cooks or brewers.
The Strahl knows their secrets. It knows the way Balthier dare not see his reflection in any mirror, it knows of the potted plant hidden so guiltily beneath Fran's bed, and it sees Nono eat Kupo Nut after Kupo Nut, until his mind flies higher than the clouds.
It knows flight and adventures and self-deception.
But most of all, the Strahl knows freedom.
