Tricolor Yapper
Black wolf Pelt x25 - Black Wolf, Boreal wood
Micro Deer x40 - Death’s Head Tag, Wooden Path

Barking Jester
Mute Swan x10 - Hunting Ice, Nature, Water
Snow Streak Pinion x35 - Snow Streak, Harpy’s Roost

Wispwillow Peryton
Glow Mushroom x25 - Foraging Arcane, Lightning, Shadow
Black Bishop x 25 - Chests, Scavenging Arcane, Plague, Shadow, Fire, Lightning

Rosy Peryton
Fluted Conch x25 - Waterway, Maren Currentfinder
Wilting Rose x5 - Foraging Plague

anonymous asked:

That Life and Death comic was fucked me up too. And of course my brain had to whisper "What if Hannibal is Life and Will is Death? Hannibal kills things because he's an impatient bastard who wants his gifts to arrive faster. Will prefers things to be alive because he thinks they are more beautiful. The tension between them is high." Evidently, everything is Hannigram AU and incredibly fucked up.

This may be the weirdest thing I’ve ever written, but (possibly?) in a good way. 

Based on this beautiful and brilliant comic.


They meet upon the plain, Life trailing stars and comets in his wake. Death eats the shadows that fall before him.

It takes an age to reach other, and Life counts the beats of each lifetime as Death comes closer.

“Hello,” he says.

Death ducks his head, pale and shy. Life can see the dwindling light of each snuffed constellation swirling in his eyes.

He is so very beautiful.

“Do you have a name?”

Death’s mouth is soft and gentle as he smiles. “Will,” he says.

“Will,” he tastes the word, lets it burst over his tongue.

“Have you enjoyed my gifts?”

Will’s face is still and solemn.

“No,” he replies, but there is a fondness around his eyes that betrays him.

Life tilts his head teasingly. “And yet?”

Will looks away, lips pursed. “What is your name?”


“Hannibal,” Will says, and it sounds like drowning.

“I’m very tired, Hannibal.”

He sees it instantly, sees the drag and drain of millenia sweep through him.

Hannibal wants to touch, to take his face between his hands and pull the pain out. He cannot.


“I have tired you,” he says honestly.

Will frowns. “Yes. Why?”

Hannibal had thought the answer obvious.

“Because I love you.”

Will’s chest rattles empty bones as he laughs.

“Hannibal.” His name again, dragging rocks along a riverbed, “don’t you know that you needn’t exhaust me to love me?”

Hannibal shrugs, unaware of the regret that threads his response.

“It’s the only way I know how.”

Will’s form seems to suddenly collapse in on itself, very small and very sad. “I wish you had found another way. I would have-”

He stops himself then, nests away the feelings that were not created for him, feelings that do not fit but that he clothes himself in anyway.

“Why did you bring us here?”

Hannibal watches him, tries to catch a shard of whatever spun-glass thought had just tried to pierce the veil.

“I wanted you to see, Will. Each gift I collected for you-”

Will shakes his head. “You don’t collect them.” Smoke curls from his pale lips. “You kill them. Before their time.”

Hannibal laughs, but the brightness behind it is cold. “Neither of us have to answer to Time, Will.”

Will just looks at him, the shadow of a thousand graves beneath his eyes.

“No,” he agrees, “but it still isn’t right.”

“We were not built to determine the rightness of things.”

Will goes quiet, looks down the unending plain, then back to the blinding light of Hannibal’s eyes.

“We were not built to love either,” he says, voice shaking, “and yet here we stand.”

Joy rises in Hannibal, unfamiliar, sticking to his ribs.

Will looks at him curiously, lifts his fingers for just a moment, then falters.

“I think I have always loved you,” Will says.

Hannibal takes a step towards him, closing the distance.

“Then we are the same.”

The only thing they have been told, far-flung words from their long-forgotten creator, is that they cannot touch. They can never touch.

Worlds have passed and crumbled between them without speaking because they were told to keep away.

But they were never told why.

In this moment, Hannibal does not care why. He knows, without asking, that neither does Will.

So he kisses him.

Will melts, drags his bony arms around Hannibal and mewls into his mouth. Hannibal feels himself growing cold, feels the creep of decay singing about his fingertips.

And still he kisses.

Hot and fervent, each press and turn of his mouth a pledge. Will clings to him, drawing the life from him with desperation. Hannibal lets him. He gives and gives and gives.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes.

The ground cracks beneath them.

Parted only by the shock, he looks into Will’s eyes. The galaxies are winking out one by one. Will does not notice.

He draws a hand over Hannibal’s brow, rapt with fascination. He kisses him again. It is warm.

“I love you.”

Words shared by both, the shape of the same sound from two mouths begging not to be parted.

The crack widens and they are flung to the ground.

When he looks up, Will’s eyes are shining bright and clear with the light of a dawning universe. He looks at his hands, pulsing with blood and sweat and…

and life.

“What have you done?” he cries out across the void.

Hannibal looks at his own hands, now pale and paper-thin, a translucent near-blue that shines over the bone.

“I gave you what you wanted,” Death says, “I gave you Life.”

Will blinks free crystalline tears, trembling and warm.

“This is not what I wanted,” he whispers, reaching shaking fingers across the improbable chasm.

Hannibal steps back.

“To have touched you even once,” he says, “was worth all of my lifetimes.”

Will shakes his head, draws the stars close around his shoulders.

“What shall I do now?

Hannibal smiles, his heart so full it freezes and stops. He draws the hood of his cloak over his head, billowing and molding over him like a shadow.

“Send me a gift.”