Guardians in the Night [Captain C. Maltese and Valerian]
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Valerian on 05-03-2010, 21:30:15</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Guardians in the Night [Captain C. Maltese and Valerian]</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Valerian</strong> on <strong>05-03-2010, 21:30:15</strong>
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				The ferry was really only chugging along through the choppy surf, but the wind ruffled hard through Sarah’s short, dirty blonde hair and stung her face, giving the illusion of speed.&nbsp; It was late spring, but this was still the Atlantic Ocean, and the air was sharp, the longer days not yet able to burn away all of winter’s chill.<br><br>Sarah was used to this, though.&nbsp; Taking this assignment was very nearly coming home for her.&nbsp; She’d grown up in Bedford, Nova Scotia, just a few miles from this strip of ocean – a child of privilege, as most of her neighbours had been; but, also like them, she’d chafed at being expected to grow up just like their parents, all lawyers or financial wizards, ready to take over the family business.&nbsp; When Sarah had said she wanted to study journalism, the disappointment in her parents’ eyes had wounded more than she’d dared to let on, and it had taken all her seventeen-year-old courage to stick to her decision.<br><br>For years she’d wondered, off and on, if she should have given in, but finally she’d put all that behind her.&nbsp; Her job wasn’t glamourous as her mother had hoped, and she didn’t earn a fortune each year, as her father had wished; but at almost twenty-five years old, she’d finally figured out that she was in the right place.<br><br>Now, though, she was nearly right back where she’d started, if only temporarily.&nbsp; She was a freelance journalist – she loved the variety of subjects it let her work with – and for the next few days, at least, she was working for a popular history magazine, commissioned to write an article, or perhaps even a small series of articles, on the Sambro Island Lighthouse.&nbsp; With its 250th anniversary nearing, in 2004, the lighthouse was attracting new attention.&nbsp; This was only partly because of the approaching landmark, though.<br><br>There was also some controversy recently about the sad state of the lighthouse and its outbuildings.&nbsp; Everything was being left to fall into disrepair, at the mercy of the elements, in spite of the fact that it bore the distinction of being the oldest surviving light in North America.&nbsp; Protest was growing, and it was probable that the Canadian Coast Guard, the group responsible for its oversight, would give in soon enough; but for now the lighthouse was inoperational and faded, a shadow of its former self.<br><br>Except sometimes, when a ship was most in need of help around the dangerous shoals surrounding the island, the light shone out bright and clear.<br><br>Three ships now had been saved from running aground in this way, and word was spreading.&nbsp; Sarah didn’t really believe it herself.&nbsp; Clearly, there was some combination of honest mistakes, confusion, and deliberate self-deception at work here.&nbsp; But whatever the true explanation, she was sure she could make a good story out of it.<br><br>She could see the island ahead now, and just at that moment, the sun broke through.&nbsp; The day was a blustery one even away from the water, with dark clouds alternating with sunlight that seemed too bright in comparison to the iron-grey clouds, hinting at rain but not yet outright threatening it.&nbsp; Now the rays broke through, shining down onto the island before her, and she drank in the sight.<br><br>The island was of pale granite, and illuminated like this, it seemed to glow against the steely ocean.&nbsp; Hardy grass covered the portions of the island that weren’t regularly washed with salt water, a pure, solid green that made the island seem even more unreal.&nbsp; This, she thought, was why lighthouses would always captivate the public mind.<br><br>She was less thrilled with lighthouses herself, though only know was she really beginning to remember why.&nbsp; When she was a child, her family had come here to explore the island and the lighthouse, just before it was due to be closed.&nbsp; She’d loved seeing the inner workings of the light, and had mourned its imminent loss as only a nine year old can.&nbsp; But as the shadows lengthened, something about the place had begun to make her uneasy, and by the time they’d left, she’d been crying exhausted, frightened tears.&nbsp; It hadn’t helped that an older cousin, seeing her fear, had set out to frighten her still more, playing little tricks on her, and always managing to avoid being caught by the adults.<br><br>She shook her head, doing her best to laugh it off, but it wasn’t easy.&nbsp; It wasn’t even as if she was alone.&nbsp; The Coast Guard discouraged regular tours, but people could and did go out to the island, and there were a few others on the ferry with her, mostly weekend photographers, by the looks of them.&nbsp; And she knew there would be at least one other person on the island – retired sea captain Ian Cavanaugh, who rented one of the more intact outbuildings as his home.&nbsp; The general opinion seemed to be that he was eccentric, to say the least; but apparently he was quite content to live there, seeing almost no one.<br><br>Not for the first time, she wondered if he’d even be willing to talk to her, reclusive as he was, but she’d gotten interviews from reluctant people before.&nbsp; It was possible that he’d be glad of a young woman willing to listen to his stories, and a not unattractive one at that.&nbsp; Sarah preferred to succeed through good, hard work, but she wasn’t above trying to charm with her clear blue eyes and a warm smile now and then.<br><br>The ferry had docked, and she followed the others out onto the rather makeshift dock.&nbsp; They went off in search of interesting vistas and interplay of light and shadow that could be captured on film; she headed straight for the one remaining cabin.&nbsp; On the way, she passed the other buildings; mostly collapsed, one burned to the rock beneath, with moss and grass now taking over the ruins.<br><br>Truthfully, the standing cabin was hardly any more inviting.&nbsp; It was still solid, but worn and small, and she wondered at anyone choosing such a place to live.&nbsp; Was such isolation truly good for anyone, even those who craved it?&nbsp; But she wasn’t here to psychoanalyze him, she reminded herself, just talk to him about the lights.&nbsp; Rumour had it that he had insisted he knew nothing, but he had to have seen or heard something – protesters, perhaps, trying to prove the value of the lighthouse.<br><br>She reached the door and took a deep breath, casting one more glance around the island’s wild beauty.&nbsp; No matter how many buildings they crammed onto the granite, this would always belong to the sea and to nature, not to humans.<br><br>She shook her head, smiled ruefully at the near-poetry of this thought, and rapped on the door.
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