Artemis snorted and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Anyways…” She pulled out another, dirtier, much larger piece of parchment. This one was weathered, stained, a quarter unlegible, like it’d been dropped in mud during a rainstorm, but still obviously visible as a bounty poster. It showed an unassuming unicorn, one who wouldn’t look too out-of-place at a gathering of Canterlot socialites: Amanita. Bitterroot went to the charges and twitched: necromancy. She didn’t read much further; she both didn’t want to (necromancers could perform their most grotesque rituals away from prying, authoritarian eyes out here) and didn’t need to (she’d never heard of a necromancer who wasn’t up to no good).