[eev]

Days pass in few. The edges of posters strung about swivel with the winds.
Some torn from their nails by bounty hunters, some by children as mere keepsakes.

Yet whatever many remained held another piece stitched to its parent.
Its end laced with dried, sticky sap.
Amaranthis' own.

To increase the bounty upon her head amidst a madwoman's stride.

With money of her own.

---

---

For whomever remained at its chase, the deal had gotten only sweeter.

Yet the posters strung about the Ocean's Deep Cafe were yet untouched.