[ Her tone and the shift in her body language alert Balthier that she has not taken his comments in the light-hearted and exaggerated manner he intended. He has seen this before in her, and feels a little guilty for forgetting. He remembers being that raw -- or at least his version of it -- and the jarring nature of having the wound salted again. Worse, sometimes, for others not registering it was there. But it also was never quite their fault; he was a stewing pot of emotions and raw nerves; it could hardly be avoided. ]

Touché. I ran away rather than become a martyr. [ Or a tyrant. ] I would also prefer a farm to that, and I quite hate dirt and repetitive manual labor.

Not piracy, not farming, not spending your ample years in abject mystery. What do you idealize?