He has been through many storms before and with any luck and no short amount of skill, this one will not be his last. It is, however, his first storm at this particular outpost. He has found that each lighthouse’ storms are different. They all have their quirks of coastline and brutality. Where in some the winds buffeting you are the greatest threat, trying to pull you into the sky never to be seen again, in others it is the hidden cliffs and jagged rock outcrops that spell doom for voyagers and wayward Keepers.
For Pelagia Point he thinks it is the deceptively shallow ground that poses the greatest threat. The lighthouse is situated in a cove, surrounded by high cliffs and riddled with caves. The water drops off abruptly near the cove's edges, but inversely it rises up to a height that can easily scour a ship's hull long before they realize there is any danger. The charts and maps that were provided to him point to a precarious sailing path that can lead a ship to the only spot that is safe to anchor in, tucked just behind the left hand cliff shelf. If one did not know where to find it they likely never would and in weather like this evening’s he knows even seasoned navigators who knew of the path would need his guidance to reach safe harbor.
He is so lost in his musings that he almost misses the snap of the black flag his searchlight illuminates. He quickly maneuvers it back, zeroing in on the madly wriggling flag a masts height in the air. Moving it down he sees her. A ship approaches. At their current distance and through the pouring rain he cannot make out their coat of arms or affiliation, but he is a Lighthouse Keeper, and he had sworn to lead all ships to safe harbor. Pressing down with all his weight he begins to open and close the shutters to the beacon, letting light peak through at intervals, repeated thrice. When he sees a returning light signal, he lets light pour through and begins the dangerous task of guiding the ship to home.
It is as its prow enters the harbour that he finally manages to identify the flag it bears. A cross and bones, torn almost beyond recognition, but the stark dead white skull stares out at him.
His hands grip the metal handles of the light but do not move. He was technically employed by the Crown, and he knows what Sheriff Scarlowe would expect of him. The bushy eyebrowed man had scowled quite seriously when he’d handed the coastal defense of the town over to him those three short weeks ago.
The cove is complex enough, the winds strong enough, that they would have such little control over steering that if he led them to the right, there would be no chance for the ship to survive. Smaller boats might be deployed to reach shore, but it would be a harried thing, and the closer one came to shore the worse the shoals became, so even there the chances of any of the crew aboard actually reaching him uninjured were miniscule. It would be so easy. All he’d have to do is flex his arms and pivot.
His hand swung the heavy lantern round, and led the ship to the left shelf. Mindful of the water distorting the light's path. He was the Lighthouse Keeper, and his duty was to every ship and all of her crew, crown be damned. His oath to his life's work came first, and he would not lose more lives if he could help it.
The ship drops its anchor and signals back all clear. Safe harbor found.
He will not see her crew until the storm passes, most of him hopes he won't see her at all, it is never a good thing to cross paths with pirates. He will be eternally grateful to meet them when he does.