“You look really tired.”
“Do I?” There’s some distance to the low drawl his voice, as if Balthier is only half-paying attention to anyone but the task at hand. Scattered before him on the cold metal floor are remnants of the Strahl’s initial model blueprints from nigh seven years prior; normally he prefers to work on a drafting table like a person, but the mere volume of these records called for a workspace only the entirety of the den’s floor could provide. Through his eyeglasses, the pirate squints. He’s been seeing the wrong side of the sunrise too oft lately, it seems, and it’s wearing on him - clearly it must be, for Vaan, the master of all bountiful heedlessness has even come to take note of Balthier’s state of exhaustion. He can practically feel the lines carved beneath his eyes with these late nights, reading and re-reading countless blueprints, status reports, drafting proposals. There must be a way to remedy this, the Strahl. His dear girl is perplexingly sick, and the lines from the skystone port to the glossair engines just. won’t. bloody. budge.
“She’s been landbound for weeks now.” His voice carries its usual richness but the tenor falls flat. “If I’m not to sleep on her account I may as well use these hours to try and figure out what ails my ship.” It’s maddening. It’s been seven years since he’s had Her. There should be no problem of hers that he cannot solve. Fran, even, is left at a loss, and has since taken off to Archades to commission an engingeer that can at least diagnose Her with something. Anything. A name. Fickle girl indeed. The sky pirate’s beringed hand rubs at one eye beneath his eyeglasses, clumsily lifting the frame with a knuckle. He can feel the ache in the knobs of his spine protest at his hunch, and he feels even more like his father, pouring over plans and blueprints, losing sleep, driven to a madness that makes him want to tear out his hair. The parallelisms don’t miss him, and it does not help his mood in the slightest. Worst part is, he’s too tired to be angry.
