"Ah yes, I suppose upon reflection you're probably the one person here who doesn't have to worry about losing any fingertips." Another wry look from the Dark Lord, who now regarded the rows of sprouting plants in front of them with a contemplative look once again.

"You'll have to forgive us less privileged souls who can only hope for some extra wood around to shock until it catches fire. But it certainly sounds as though you're the right man for the job." He could imagine it being a peaceful existence -- out in some green countryside with beloved family, spending quiet hours digging into the dirt, spraying water over growing stalks, bathing and brushing and feeding...whatever sort of livestock was kept on Erdrea. Not a bad life, surely. No wonder the idea of being a Prince seemed to hold no real allure for Eleven.