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January 29th, 1860 – Brearside was being battered by unrelenting rain that, judging by the dark clouds looming as far as they eye could see, had no intention of stopping any time soon. Passable bogs became treacherous when water, unable to drain away in the muddy moorlands, began to flood the marginally safer pathways. Travel to and from neighboring villages had stopped in its tracks as only a fool would try and take a horse or worse a horse and carriage through the mess. There would be no trade, no contact, no nothing with the outside world until the weather cleared up at the weekend; a dangerous thing for its vulnerable people to have.

Ronan hoped (though he was not to the point of prayer yet) that the possible house-guest and future member of the Underwood Society had already made it to Brearside. If he hadn't, Mister Harley Williams – a man of science, judging from their brief correspondence – would have a hard time finding a room to sleep in at the village. Desmond Boarding House had been full since last night, the owners frazzled at the most business they'd seen in years and all of it because of the freak, unexpected rainstorm. The Findlay heir would have investigated for fear of supernatural tampering; however, the age-old saying held him back: if you don't like the Scottish weather, wait half an hour and it'll change.

3 o'clock saw Ronan surrounded by books, journals and self-made notes in various languages, resting on the floor by the armchair. The rain had transformed into sleet and came in fast, unpredictable bursts against creaking windows. He would argue that his manor faced the worst of it, being on a small hill up the road from the village. Eventually the lord had stopped reading, as there was only so much he could learn about the Fae's control over the weather or the increase in will 'o wisp populations in unpleasant climates. He sighed, picking at the collar of his shirt.

Perhaps Mr. Williams had only a passing interest in the unknown and decided not to come at all? It would be a real shame if that was the case. Ronan had been looking forward to another initiate for the Underwood Society, ever since the last one was– well, prevented from joining. Hunting 'monsters' would take him to an early grave if he had to continue it alone; even something so simple as a kelpie would drown him in an instant without someone to mitigate its charm, walk up behind it and strike it with iron. He had little hopes of the man visiting now, but even so he was ready to jump up at a moment's notice to grab the door.

Remember, never let anyone in the headquarters without first confirming their identity, read rule one of the Underwood Society.

The weather was absolutely dreadful, the pouring rain giving way to violent sleet and hail and then back to rain. It was almost as if the world had been turned upside down, and the oceans fell into the heavens before returning to earth in a blinding fury. This sort of weather reminded Harley of when she was growing up in New England. It also reminded her of how much she had hated it, and left. How she did long to return to the warm shores of France, how beautiful it was in the summer and spring. Even London, though it in itself was an over-polluted cesspool drowning in it's own grey skies and damp demeanor, was beginning to look more and more preferable to this. How had people managed to inhabit this island for so long? Not only was it unpleasant, it was damn near impossible to get around! Her carriage driver had taken her through winding detours, past bogs and swamps, hills that were too tall to bee hills, and mountains far too small to be considered mountains. On top of everything, the roads were so horribly paved that she was bumped and most surely bruised just from being inside the vehicle. At the very least, they were inside the town of Brearside before the weather took a turn for the worse, if that was even possible.

Grabbing her umbrella and suitcase, Harley adjusted her skirt and bustle so that the hem was four inches above her ankles. Thank goodness she had the sense to pack her boots, though she doubted whether or not they would survive the trip to the Findlay Manor. She stepped outside and was immediately buffeted by a blasting zephyr of stinging rain, which burned like ice. She pulled her hat down and opened her umbrella, nodding to her cab driver as she hurried down the street, if it could even resemble one any more, it was more and more resembling a flood, mud and horse dung stagnating the swirling waters, obscuring one's perceptions to the depths of the puddles.
She only walked on the high ground, why were there no sidewalks in this dinky little village? Lugging her heavy bag, battling to keep her umbrella over her head, and not fall into the festering pools of god-knows-what, these were challenges that it seemed even Hercules would cringe at. Still, through the forceful gale and the typhoon levels of rain, she managed to arrive at the Manor's property, safe and sound as a drowning kitten, which she felt she was more and more resembling.

She hurried to the front door, balancing the umbrella on her shoulder as she readjusted her hat and skirts, before lifting the heavy knocker, bringing it down loudly. She hopped from foot to foot, rubbing her gloved hands together. Lord above, how was it possible for it to be so cold and yet still rain? Did the tumultuous cloud above whip and beat the rain drops so fiercely that they could not freeze? Or was this the normal wether here? It was hard to believe this humble village was a mere twenty miles north of Carlisle, and yet the climate so much more vicious and unforgiving.

However, whatever fates had taken such joy in hindering her journey apparently had taken mercy, as the door soon opened, bringing a thinly veiled look of relief to her face. She put on the best smile she could give in these uncomfortable conditions, for the sake of being polite.
"Mister Findlay? Oh, you don't know how wonderful it is to finally meet you. May I come in? I apologize for being late, my carriage was slowed by the weather. Oh, forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Harley Williams, your correspondent from the Carlisle police department?"

By the time there was a knock on the door, Ronan had fallen into a light doze, musty book from the 17th century resting over his face to protect his eyes from the thin grey light filtering in through the clouds then the window. He leapt up at once, ran a hand through his now unruly hair and, after a moment's hesitation, threw on a waistcoat over his newly rumpled shirt. That would be him now then – Harley Williams, hopefully alive. He'd already kept him waiting at the door for a few seconds longer than was polite; he may as well the pleasantries over with sooner so as to get onto the important topic, an induction the Underwood Society, as fast as possible.

When the door did eventually swing open, Ronan barely had a chance to be disappointed that it wasn't the man he was expecting before the woman started her introduction, let alone start his usual charming greeting for ladies. Much to his shock (and curiosity), she was Harley Williams. He had been certain the penmanship was male, the word choice so different than a dame's that he didn't even consider the possibility.

The woman had definitely played him, he thought with a small smile spreading across his face. He didn't even need to ask her some questions about her letters to ensure she was who she said she was – Ms. Williams did say that she was from Carlisle. "Ronan Findlay, at your service," he greeted once she'd finished, bowing slightly. "Where are my manners? In first, in first! I shouldn't leave a lady standing in the rain." He moved to the side so as to allow her room to enter. The doorway was narrow but the hallway inside even more so, a cabinet right by the door with an iron fire poker and various papers strewn across it. Better safe than sorry. "Apologies for the mess. I'm a bachelor."

Turning to pick up her luggage – heavy luggage – he led her past a grand staircase and left into the drawing room where the various books on unnatural weather patterns and the supernatural were still strewn about over the end tables and any flat surface available. "Somehow, I had fooled myself into thinking you were a mister. Can you believe it?" he said, chuckling at himself if nobody else would. "Feel free to make yourself at home – I'll take your suitcase to the guest room. God only knows what would spill on them if they were left in here." He waved a free arm at a mismatched red armchair purposefully placed next to a crystal bottle of amber liquid. "And get stuck into the liquor, if you feel the need," he continued with a sly grin.

It shouldn't take him that long to ascend three flights of stairs with the bag – maybe only five minutes? This is one of those times I could use some of that Fae strength, he thought mournfully.

Mister Findlay was clearly a character, Harley could see that very plainly. His face seemed far too young, given his writing and his gait. His hair was tousled and clothes more wrinkled than an old woman's face. Had he been sleeping in his clothes recently? They looked as though they had never been touched by an iron or board, did he even know what a hanger was? Or did he just not have an iron here, in this large manor. She sorely hoped that wasn't the case, as she hadn't thought to bring her own along. Silly her, imagining that basic necessities of life were available to the upper class.

She hurried inside gratefully when he stepped aside to let her in, closing her umbrella and shaking the water out over the threshold before leaning it against the doorway. She took off her cloak and hung it up on the cost rack, looking over her shoulder when Findlay made his remark over her gender. She frowned, not certain whether to be offended or complimented.
"Ah, well, that may be an error on my part. My full name is Harlene Morgiana Williams, but I've gone by Harley all my life. It is a girl's name where I'm from, after all. Please take my word when I say I had no intention to lead you to believe I am anything but a woman." She replied, noticing him picking up-and struggling with- her suitcase. Were lords really that weak, or was she unusually strong? It wasn't like she had done a lot of heavy lifting in her life, although, carrying boxes of files, stacks of books, and carts of evidence were a part of the more unglamorous aspects of being a secretary. She did do all of her own cooking and laundry as well, maybe she was fairly strong, compared to those who had servants to do it.

Once inside, she was able to get a better look at her surroundings. Or as good a look as she could get. The lights were so dim! Could they not afford lanterns or candles in this place?! Or was this village permanently trapped in the dark ages?! She almost tripped over the stacks of books and odd memorabilia strewn about the floor, on tabletops, desks, chairs! A bachelor indeed! Now she knew why Mister Findlay's suit was so wrinkled, no maid or butler in all the world would dare work in such hazardous conditions! Dark, cluttered, strangely smelling of mold and liquor, this manor more resembled an alcoholic fox hole than a place of any human habitat!

She cringed internally and externally each and every time her precious suitcase was rammed into furniture or banged against the walls, or dragged on the floor with an unholy scraping sound. But she didn't want to insult Mister Findlay's pride by taking it right then and there, and so diligently followed him to the staircase, praying to God her microscopes and glasses would be unharmed. She glanced uncomfortably to the suspicious looking chair Findlay invited her to sit in, an unmarked bottle of liquor next to it. She did, however, take advantage of a different opportunity, picking up her suitcase when Mister Findlay set it down, grasping the handle tightly in case he were to try and take it from her.

"Um, I thank you for you hospitality, Mister Findlay, but I'm afraid I don't drink. And I would prefer not to be separated from my belongings, as my case contains many delicate instruments. Very delicate. And very expensive. So, please do not take it personally when I insist on being the one to, well, set them up." She explained, holding the bag in one hand as she started back towards the staircase, turning back to look at Findlay.
"Now, which way was it, to my room? I would like to have my tools put away properly so that we may conduct our business as soon as possible."

"Certainly," Ronan said, inclining her head as he stepped away from her luggage. Did he look weak, was that it? He could definitely carry it up the stairs but – well, no matter. No point in puffing up in righteous indignation when there was no offense to be had. "From the landing, turn sharply right and head down the hallway. Last room on the left. Watch yourself on the top step, as well – it's slightly higher than the last!"

He was thankful that Findlay Manor's upper rooms were far cleaner and more rich than downstairs. The lounge had been plagued with generations of untidy members of the Underwood Society and their collections of journals; men that weren't likely to clean up after themselves. He knew it wasn't much to look at – and that Miss Williams was unimpressed by it – but if she had seen the state of it before he took over. He suppressed a shudder. The guest room he hadn't exactly cleaned by himself but rather he made a quick, almost foolish contract with a brownie, a household spirit, and thus they were always kept immaculate by the often invisible creatures.

Rule two of the Underwood Society stated that the organisation should never work with creatures, only against them. He'd already broken that rule several times.

The room he had directed Miss Willaims too was that of the previous Lady Findlay, almost six decades ago – a beautiful room of monotonous greys and whites with an overabundance of lace. Taken by the Fae, her notes and collections on the Court still resting on the shelves. It was the room of choice for any lady visitors (who usually tended to be the Sidhe, if anyone).

Sighing, he headed back into the lounge, peering out at the weather which had, unsurprisingly, taken a wintry turn for the worse as snow was beginning to build up on the moorland. Wait a second– His eyes were drawn to a lone figure in the distance, dark shadow on the hilltop. What was that all about?

Harley nodded to him politely as he gave her the instructions, trying not to show how hurried she went up the stairs. What a horrible first impression she must have made! He had been expecting her to be a man, of all things! She knew she never mentioned her gender specifically in their letters, but she hadn't though it was relevant to the topic of discussion! Was her handwriting truly so masculine?

Forgetting Findlay's warning about the last step, she tripped, her feet slipping out from under her as she belly-flopped hard onto the landing with an audible thud. She groaned painfully, shakily getting back to her feet, and continued on, trying to salvage her dignity. She had banged her knee fairly hard on the way down, and once she was out of eyesight- and earshot- she hopped up and down, clutching in and hissing out silent curses under her breath. Lord above, this manor was a death trap! That was the second time she had tripped since entering, and she knew, or holed, that she wasn't that clumsy!

Grumbling bitterly, she turned into the right hallway, taking the last room on the right. Opening the door, she was very much surprised by the cleanliness of the room, it was a completely different atmosphere. Everything was neat and eloquent, from the satin sheets on the four poster bed, to the plush carpet covering the old oak floors. Perhaps she had misjudged Mister Findlay before, and he wasn't the slob she had perceived him to be.

She placed her suitcase on the bed, carefully opening it up and taking out her equipment. Beakers, vials, Bunsen burners, microscopes, lenses, glasses, paper and ink pens, rulers, an abacus, red wax candles, chalk, her sketchbook and charcoal, strong soap, mortal and pestle, knifes and dissecting tools, books on anatomy, chemistry, mathematics, physics, forensics, criminology, philosophy, and history. She arranged them all precisely and nearly on the desk and table, moving the sewing machine and vase of white lilies to different locations.

Done setting up, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror, and frowned. Of dear, she did look a mess. Her blonde curls were damp and tangling, makeup running, her shoulders were soaked and hem splattered with mud. She couldn't appear in civilized company like this! Closing the door, she quickly stripped herself down to her bloomers and petticoat, taking out one of her spare dresses. A dark olive color, she had never liked the dress very much, but it was the best quality dress she had, a gift from her aunt in New York. She hadn't touched the parcels sent by her parents and siblings, no doubt they were accumulating at her address in Carlisle by now.

She redid her makeup, and combed her hair, pinning it back in an effort to remain professional, yet formal. Spare stockings and her dress shoes were harder to find, she eventually settled for her brown slippers, hoping the skirts were long enough to hide her shoes.
Having done the best she could to make herself presentable, she hung up her dress to dry, hurrying back downstairs to the lounge to speak with Findlay. She found him at the window, staring out at the weather.
"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mister Findlay. I hope we may now discuss the subjects mentioned in our letters, regarding the supernatural?" She asked, not beating around the bush.

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 ancient, 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: Thomas Gladmoore, MIA. Devon Ainsworth, deceased. Elias Kerr, Traitor of the Highest Order. 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 stop 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."

Harley sat down by the coffee table as Mister Findley began clearing off large piles of paper, shoving them somewhat haphazardly on a chair that seemed like it better belonged in dining or ballroom. Then again, very little of the furniture seemed in place, rather than out of it. It was like a mischievous wind had swept furniture and knick knacks from all corners of the globe, from every period in history, the deposited it within the manor. Taxidermic crocodile heads upon glossed mahogany side tables, Ming dynasty vases with wilted flowers, peruvian blankets covering wrought iron chests.

Her eyes widened in curiosity as Findley brought out a seemingly very old and exquisitely ornate box. She couldn't recognize the designs on the box, they didn't seem Indian, Chinese, Egyptian, and certainly not English. They only tell tale clue was the words on it, carpe noctem. Latin for 'seize the night'.
Upon the opening of the box, Harley felt a violent shudder run through her body, shivers running down her spine like a military parade was marching over her grave. What- What was this powerful essence?! Harley could swear she heard whispered voices, speaking in languages she didn't understand. She disliked this, this uncomfortable feeling. She tried hard not to show how disturbed she was by the strange box, as Mister Findley didn't seem perturbed at all. How could one be used to this harrowing experience?

He picked up an aging book, explaining how it held the names of all the members of the exclusive society. He pointed to his own name, then quickly covered up the three below. Harley only had time to read one, the last. Elias Kerr? Traitor of the highest order? What did that mean? How exactly did one betray a secret society dedicated to the hunting of the supernatural? Run away? She opened her mouth to ask Findley, but he quickly cut her off, asking her if she was interested. She visibly stiffened when he made mention of witches, her teeth set on edge by the mere mention of the word. Recollecting herself in hopes it hadn't been noticed, she gave him a cool look, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
"... I have no interest in the old journals of so-called witches and warlocks, I only care for the science of the supernatural. I maintain my position that humans are derived through evolution, and these paranormal occurring must have a logical and scientifically acceptable answer. That being said, I hope that this society does not conflict with my work as a police consultant on valuable forensic evidence. However, if it does, know that I will chose practicality over sentimentality." she remarked somewhat snappishly, taking the quill and quickly signing her name.

Ronan shrugged as Miss Williams signed her name with – in his mind – foolish haste and resolved himself to watching the ink of the signature glimmer from black to green, then back to its normal, inert state. That was the magic of the Underwood Society, he supposed; his own had turned gold, and he never even questioned it. Closing the ledger and ensuring that the strap around it was tightened so no loose pages could escape, he only caught a glimpse of Harley's rather... baffling expression – was she upset?

Women.

“Oh, there is no doubt in my mind that evolution is what brought us here, today,” Ronan said, flipping open a pocket watch with one hand to check the time and rifling through the ancient box with the other. “I am not so naïve nor am I religious to completely discount science; however– ouch, broken glass–,“ he cut himself off as by accident, his fingers brushed across something sharp and painful. “However, I have seen things, met things beyond human understanding; things that cannot be explained by science. Though you are welcome to try.”

“Consider this,” he said, withdrawing a long sliver of smooth wood – rowan – which seemed older than the box itself. Symbols, Celtic ones, were carved into it with all the finesse of a small child, wounds on the apparent wand. Ronan knew he wasn't the most sensitive of folks but even he could feel the tingle of electricity that ran up his arm and to some warm centre near his heart. He gracelessly tossed it to Harley with a boyish grin on his face. “I would call you a liar, if you say you can't feel anything from that.”

Harley remained cool and unflinching as the ink on the paper changed color after signing her name, flashing green before returning black. She felt a sudden pang of anxiety, and glanced at Findley, though he seemed to take little notice of it. She quickly averted her eyes, string at the carpet on the floor as she calmed herself down. She had to calm down, she was being paranoid. No one knew anything about her past, so there was no need to worry over anything so small and silly as a change of ink's color. She smoothed her dress as Mister Findley continued speaking, looking up briefly as he exclaimed, apparently having been cut by a piece of glass.

He then pulled a long, smooth piece of wood, almost like a stick or a wand, inscribed with peculiar runes. She cocked her head to the side, curious why he had brought it out and if he intended to demonstrate anything with it, perhaps wave it like a fairy godmother and cast a spell. However, rather than belt out some silly incantation, he tossed her the stick, prompting her to react and catch it in her hands. As she turned it to get a good look at it, she felt a sudden pull towards it. Her head began to ache with a pulsing pain, a tense ball beginning to form in her brain. She could feel her vision getting blurry, but her body felt numb. The pounding of her own ear drums changed, she could make out words, chantings, drumming. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would go away, and the drumming stopped. She opened her eyes, finding herself in a completely different location. She was atop a grassy knoll, boulders jutting out and covered in dry moss. The sun was out, clouds high above white, soft, almost fluffy. She could feel the wind, warm, fresh, carrying a smell of smoke.

She turned in the direction the wind came from, a few feet away, a fire burned in a small circle of stones. Not far off, a tent made of animal bone and skin stood, painted with earthen runes and shades. She heard a humming behind her, whipping about and spotting an old man, sitting on one of the boulders. He was dressed in elaborate trappings, fur pelts and skins, moccasins and talismans. His grey hair was long and wild, bound in matted, beaded dreads. His skin seemed painted blue on his face, stripes and swirls like a fierce storm cloud. Her eyes were drawn to his hands, wrinkled, heavy, and scarred, whittling away at a rowan branch. He looked up at her, and she was shocked by his pale eyes, how white they were, like cataracts had consumed them! The surprise of seeing him jolted her out of her reverie with a gasp, as if she had been holding her breath!

She was back in the musty, dim manor, Findley in front of her and the wand clutched tightly in her trembling hands. It seemed not a second had passed since the vision began, and she looked down briefly at the object which had cased it, before flinging it away from her as hard as she could. With the force behind her arm in her panic to remove the stick from her vicinity, she had plunged it midway into the plaster wall, leaving a sizable hole. She stood up and left the room quickly, standing out in the hallway, trying to recollect herself. What was that? That trip into the past?! What had it meant, why had that stick brought it about?! That couldn't have been normal, even by supernatural standards, could it?!

Well, that was entirely unexpected, Ronan mused to himself as his guest stood there; shaking like a leaf, trembling in apparent terror, eyes wide with panic as if she'd just seen a ghost– and, perhaps she had. The words, “How about it, then?” had barely passed from his lips as she chucked the ancient wand away with surprising force, strong enough to embed it in the wall.

It left a hole, one that he would have to fix later or leave. A picture might do the job of covering it... Ronan sighed, swiftly dodging around the junk littering the room as he left it in pursuit of Miss Williams but not before retrieving the relic from its plaster crater.

“Honestly...” he said with a wry smile even though Harley was not within hearing range. Why does everyone run away when something unexpected happens? It is a human thing? At the previous initiation he had performed, one of the boys (for that was what they were, only sixteen and barely out of their childhood) had a supernatural reaction to anything he touched, feeling each and every emotion left behind by humanity. Psychometry, they called it, brought on by the ambient magic of the ritual box and contents.

At his own, Ronan had called upon the Fae, but that was another matter entirely – even his subconscious didn't want to remember gossamer wings and the howling gale.

“Miss Williams? Miss Williams,” he said as he reached her, holding the item in one hand with the other resting nonchalantly in his pockets. Ronan wondered whether he should have given her longer to, for lack of a better wording, pull herself together; however, there was no point in letting such a fear stew. “Are you all right? Was it the wand?” He couldn't quite bring himself to sound concerned. There was no point in putting on an act. As it was, he just regarded her carefully as if expecting her to break at any moment into hysteria.

Harley couldn't help but jump as Mister Findley appeared beside her, questioning as to her wellbeing. She had practically forgotten his existence, for what it was worth, although she couldn't help but notice the evident lack of empathy, or even sympathy, in his voice or manner. As if it were a completely normal occurrence. She smoothed her hair and skirts, gathering face rather quickly and coolly acting as if nothing had happened.
"I am quite fine, thank you for your concern. You needn't mind me, it was nothing of importance." she said briskly, trying to keep her voice from quavering, though she couldn't help the trembling of her hands. That vision... It had seemed so real! As if she had actually been there!

She clasped her hands tightly together, pacing away from him to better compose herself and hide the evidence she had been so thoroughly disturbed.
"Well, that's it then? No more of that glowing ink and whispered spells nonsense? Wonderful, I am going to my room then, to, um, lie down, this has been a very stressful day, yes. Quite stressful, and I-I would hate to bother you with female hysterics. I'll see you down for dinner then, in an hour or five." she stammered, gathering her skirt in her hands and walking as quickly as she could from the scene, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, where she promptly flung herself on her bed. Oh, how she regretted coming here! It was cold, wet, dreary, and that Findley man was downright unsettling! His monotone voice, unkempt appearance, and the fact that he spoke about the supernatural with such ease, as if being taken as a lunatic were none of his concern... It was frightening, and she hoped, oh how she hoped, that the storm would be merciful and let up soon, so she could go back to Carlisle just for some rest, the first few hours of being here had worn her physically and mentally!