Memoriae of The Minerva (Minerva)

“Minnie!” Mother’s voice distracts you from the gorgeous, emerald green bug you’ve been following for the last twenty minutes, crawling after it in the grass and watching its every move. “Minnie, come along, dear. It’s time for dinner!”
You glance back towards the bug, only to find that it’s gone - vanished into the grass and out of sight. Well, that’s no fun at all.
Standing up, you shuffle your way back to the gazebo where mother and her friend is waiting with a tray of mutton and potatoes.
“...don’t know about this plan of yours.” Opines one of mother’s friends, a portly man who’s obviously never seen a hard day’s work. His clothes are too clean and his hands too soft. “Have you really thought it all the way through?”
Mother arches an eyebrow, passing a plate of food to you which you proceed to poke dejectedly at with a knife. “‘This plan of mine?’” She scoffs, offering the fat man an amused chuckle. “It’s a school, Reginald, not a military coup. Compared to dueling Vennican magi and battling Durasian dragons it’s virtually risk free.”
“Virtually being the operative word, my dear.” The man replies, tearing off a bit of meat and stuffing it into his mouth with his fingers. Without waiting to swallow, he adds, “I’m only looking out for your best interests.”
Lifting a scrap of mutton to her mouth on the tip of her knife, Mother nods thoughtfully, chewing thoroughly before replying, “That’s very sweet, but I promise that I’m quite capable of tending my own interests. I don’t need you to do it for me.” Setting her knife down and raising a finger to illustrate her point, she continues, “What I do need from you is help with the financing.”
His brow knit in concern, the fat man hmms before responding, “How much gold do you need?”
Mother shrugs, absently nudging your plate a little closer. “Eat five bites and you can go back to playing.” Indignantly, you stab a potato with your knife and lift it to your mouth as Mother returns her attentions to the man across the table from her. “Two hundred thousand.”
The fat man’s eyes go wide. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mother interrupts him, “I can promise a two hundred percent return on investment in the next three years.”
“On what collateral?” The fat man scoffs.
Mother gestures down at herself. “Why, my indentured adventuring services, of course.”
The fat man taps his chin with one greasy finger for a moment before replying, “I suppose we have an accord, my dear.”