Canon Revival


Chairman of the Procrastination Committee
Just a lil' thing



It's the first thing she senses as she comes back into the world. The scent sticks it fingers into her nose and her mouth, scraping her throat.

She's by the sea.

And while that's the first thing she feels, the first thing she thinks is Ah! I ache like a motherfucker!

She opens her eyes, but the sun is bright and vicious; she rolls onto her stomach to hide from it, rubbing at her good eye. Sleep dust rolls from her lid onto her index finger, and she smears it on the wooden planks beneath her.

There's sound now, too - its midday and up from the docks the city is alive. It pulses and throbs like a heart. Laughter and crying and cheering pour into her ears, a message that screams Life! Life is here, and it is fucking glorious! The tide claws with frothy paws at the dock walls and the foaming spray of it spits up at her. It's cold where it stabs her through the gaps in the pier's wooden surface. It stings against her naked skin.

Wait -


She dares to open her eyes properly. pushing herself up onto hands and knees. And yes, her skin didn't lie to her - she is as stark as the day she was born. Her flesh is grey, but it is not the pallid grey of corpses or the simple grey of stone - it is Moor grey, vibrant and steadfast and so, so alive.

Behind her, there's a cough. A young, but obviously masculine voice.

"Uh, Miss? Excuse me, Miss?"

She flops sideways, rolling onto her rear so that she's facing him. She lazily crosses her legs and folds her arms to maintain some sense of decency, but its more for his benefit than hers. The poor dockworker is clearly uncomfortable. He averts his eyes from her nude form, a deep red colour spreading across his cheeks from the bridge of his nose. She imagines the heat he must feel in his face, as the blood flows thick and healthy beneath his skin.

"I'm well sorry, Miss, but you can't be down 'ere, 'specially not all... all nude an' such."

She appears to think on this for a moment, before standing, arms still folded over her small breasts. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse - but there's a raw power behind it, that special type of unbreakable self-confidence that one only has if they have once hated themselves.

"Give me your clothes."

"I'm - what?"

"I said give me your clothes, asshat, or I'll feed you to the fucking fishes."

Confronted by this naked apparition with a sharp tongue and a body like a rapier, the dock-boy feels his confidence waning.

"You can't just... I mean..."

She steps toward him with a threatening glare. The scar tissue around her ruined eye bends and swirls as she frowns. At this, his willpower collapses and he starts to take off his shirt.

In a moment of pity, she leaves the boy his briefs.

As she's tying the belt around her waist, her senses seem to return to her fully. A prickle crawls up her neck that tells her she is being watched, and she looks up from her position lower down the pier to see a small crowd gathered, gazing at her with something between awe and confusion. She assesses the gathering for a moment, before striding up the pier towards them.

Theatrically, she stops on a dime, and sweeps an eye of piercing violet across the gathering.

"What manner of beastie are ye'?" a thin man asks, his tone quivering.

She stares at him like a woman possessed, and spreads her arms with a wicked grin.

"I'm Jackdaw, demon spirit of the fucking sea. First one of y'all bitches to buy me a whiskey doesn't get cursed."