"There's many theories about arguing with women, none of them work."
Emmeline Kestler winced as her mother knotted the bows on her coat tightly before some more furious brushes of Kestler’s impossible blonde curls. The comb scratched the young woman’s scalp, but still her mother fussed about her, trussing and fussing as mothers do.
“It’ll be fine,” wheedled an exasperated Kestler, pulling her musket back over her shoulder.
“You must look PERFECT,” insisted her mother, licking a thumb and smearing off some eyeshadow from Kestler’s long, deeply unhappy features.
“Remember that the Grand Lodge will only accept perfection, and gunpowder alone won’t get you accesses to their riches.”
“I need to stay alive on enough missions too,” Emmeline pointed out “And there’s the starting tests…”
Kestler had her all sorts of horrors from the Dwarves of Dongun Hold about those.
“Sun-Orchid-Elixir. The Decemvirate must have litres of the stuff,” her mother insisted, with a familiar greedy glaze coating her withered, but still fetching features.
“You’ll get in their good books, be their favourite Alkenstar Powder Maiden, and then we’ll be as ageless as the elves, the two of us.”
Kestler managed a smile.