Ronan was jolted from his reverie as Miss Williams returned, glancing back at the now-empty moors only once before smiling. At the very least she was looking less like a drowned rat. "Of course," he said, thankful that they would be skipping most if not all of the small-talk. He wasn't particularly good at it, considering all of his interests lay in the supernatural. Slyly, he continued, "The not-so-secret Underwood Society, right?"

As he busied himself with clearing off the coffee table of loose sheets of paper, bundling them up to the side and moving them onto the massive pile of documents growing unchecked on a misplaced dining chair, he asked, "I suppose you're already associated with the Unusual, if you managed to find your way here." Bringing a hefty, ornate box up onto the surface he began swiftly unlocking its many protections. If Findlay Manor was old, the object was [i]ancient[/i], inscribed with the words 'carpe noctem'.

When it opened, a thrum of something unnatural flooded the room; however, Ronan was unaffected by it - barely even registering it after having been exposed to it for so many years. From inside, he picked out a journal of yellowed parchment and a black leather cover, flipping it open to the bookmark. "This is a log of all of those associated with us, members or otherwise, present and past." He lifted it up and pointed to his own name, only three up from the empty space at the bottom. A relatively new recruit, let alone a leader of the group. The three names beneath them he remembered vividly, their fates inscribed next to them: [i]Thomas Gladmoore, MIA. Devon Ainsworth, deceased. Elias Kerr, Traitor of the Highest Order.[/i] He swiftly covered them up, coughing slightly. "I might be the only one official hunter left but our contacts are still present in all corners of the Isle. We have money, power, and information that can help protect mankind from the things that go bump in the night."

"To you, I pose the question: are you interested? You might have noticed that these are times of change, Miss Williams. Unexplained deaths and... and weather just like this all across the Isles. It has always been the Underwood Society's job to [i]stop[/i] that, through scientific or magical means." Procuring a black-feather quill from the box just in case, he twirled it around absently. "And we have a delightful collection of notes and journals from witches and warlocks only accessible to members of our orders. Not to bribe you, or anything."