Hey, everyone, so obviously I haven't exactly been around much for, oh, the last month, and I've missed two of Ronan's classes now, too. There's a bunch of stuff going on right now that I'm just not in a position to keep playing, so I'm going to have to drop out of the game again.

But I doubt you've seen the last of me; it's not like I haven't come back before. ;)

I'll be around on AIM as much as I can, and I'll keep an eye on my FH email address -- or you can always reach me at healy.tris@gmail.com, too.

Waking up early, Ronan slipped out of bed -- being careful not to wake the other occupants -- slipped on some pyjama pants and a t-shirt, and opened and closed the door as quietly as possible as he left the room.

Coffee first, he thought, and then he might as well get started on breakfast.

[For the housemates! Or anyone else who wants to call/drop by/whatever.]

So it wouldn't be a movie night without snacks. Which was why Ronan was coming into the living room with a giant bowl of popcorn (tossed in butter with just the right amount of sea salt and a little cayenne pepper and cumin) in one hand, a couple of bottles of Guinness Foreign Extra in the other or enough for Jack and/or Emma if they are joining in, and a crockpot of sweet and sour meatballs waiting for after the first movie, or whenever they got hungrier, whichever came first.

And Ronan had a couple bottles of vodka chilled in the freezer, in case they wanted to turn anything into a drinking game. Because he tried to plan ahead like that.

Oh, and a tray of sliced vegetables, cheese, and meat in the fridge. That he'd cut himself. Because he was a dork that way.

"So," he said, placing the popcorn on the coffee table before dropping down onto the couch and handing Kaidan the second Guinness, "tell me about this again. You said that the lead is a... Hanar?"

[Up early for SP! Open for the housemates, or anyone else who wants to stop by and join them!]

Ronan finished twisting in the porch's new red lightbulb -- like he could resist, seriously -- while chattering away on the phone with Dairine (and by extension Spot) on potential ways to rewire the doorbell to play El Tango de Roxanne, only half of which involved any amount of wizardry.

Apparently Spot had pulled up an entire subsection of the manual on wizardries designed to assist with home improvements without actually doing the renovations with spells. Who knew?

Stepping away from the light fixture, he turned around and looked out at the lawn. "... Huh. Dairine, I'll have to call you back," he interrupted her. "Sorry, something's just come up."

They hadn't been there when he'd come out to put the lightbulb in... "Guys?" he called into the open door. "Anyone order some zombie lawn gnomes, express delivery?"

[For housemates, phone calls/texts/emails, people boggling at the new lawn decorations...]

Ronan blearily wandered downstairs and towards the kitchen, flicking the on-switch on the coffee pot before collapsing onto a stool at the counter. Give him a few moments, and there'll be breakfast cooking, though.

First, coffee. All the coffee. Remind Ronan to never go on errantry again, okay? No? Fine, just give him a few days to recover first. And, y'know, the big greasy fry-up -- eggs, bacon, tomatoes, potatoes, fried bagels -- that he started when the coffee maker finished and he started infusing his system with blessed, blessed caffeine.

[Expecting one, but open!]

The menu finally planned, the guests on their way -- or already arrived, and dinner already cooking, Ronan felt prepared for dinner.

The smells -- and sounds -- coming out of his kitchen were probably enough to make his guests mouth water, but that was, really, par for the course when it came to Ronan. And no, you weren't allowed into the kitchen to help.

[Up early-ish for SP; open to all the Wayward Refugees, OCD on its way!]

After the reserves meeting a couple of days before, Ronan had been left with a nagging thought that had taken him a while to tease out. He had evidence, after all, that the Manual lost all information on disappeared wizards; could it provide him with a count of the total -- no, that would be way larger than he wanted to deal with -- with the last five digits of the total number of wizards in the universe? That would be a convenient way to check if the phenomenon, whatever it was, was only affecting people he knew.

Oh, look, it could.

Oh, look, it was going down. Not at a constant, or even particular rapid, rate, but as Ronan checked periodically, there was a significant decline.

One wizard, gone without a trace, would be a significant decline. A few thousand? Was monumental.

So Ronan was sitting at the table, leftover Thai curry in front of him -- and being pushed around the plate more than being eaten. His phone was handy, of course; he was trying to work up the nerve to call Nita, or Kit, or maybe Sker'ret... They were still listed, at least for now, but the thought that that could change mid-conversation had Ronan pretty well afraid to pick up his phone and call.

Idly, Ronan sighed, scratched out a five-digit number on a piece of paper on the table, and wrote in a new, smaller one.

[Open! For houseguests, phonecalls/texts, people in town who want to stop by, etc!]

After work, Ronan rushed home to check on a few things -- he had a bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin in the slowcooker, a Thai green curry simmering in the other slowcooker (because why would Ronan only have one of those?), and a batch of steaks marinating in the fridge, ready to be grilled.

Not that Ronan was expecting to have to feed people over the next little while, or anything.

[Expecting, but open to visitors/phone calls/texts/emails/hungry people.]

"Dai, Nita," Ronan said, slipping his phone between ear and shoulder before reaching into the oven to pull out a casserole dish. "Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Nah, it's not a bad time, I'm just doing some cooking. Which reminds me -- have you been talking to Annie lately? I left her a message a while ago and never heard back.

"... No, not Tom and Carl's dog." Rolling his eyes, Ronan pulled out a knife and a spatula to dish out the casserole into smaller portions. "Never mind, I'll give her a call again later. Anyway, I was originally calling about those specs I tossed your way -- the spell for Filif? Have you made any progress on it?"

Ronan dropped his knife, narrowly missing his own foot as it clattered to the floor. "... What do you mean, 'Who?'" he asked. "Nita, you're -- how the hell could you forget Filif?"

It's got to be a Fandom thing, Ronan told himself. It's got to be a Fandom thing.

"I'll call you back later. Something's coming up over here." Hanging up his phone, swearing softly to himself, Ronan picked the knife up off the floor. Taking a deep breath, he counted to ten and started trying to think of possible causes for completely forgetting two different people.

... And, for that matter, those same two people being completely absent from the Knowledge, as if they'd never existed. "What the hell is going on?"

[Open for visits, phone calls, etc.]

Ronan bustled around the house -- his house, which was new and interesting -- as he figured out where he was going to put everything. The last few days, the deal seemed like it had been stuck in limbo, but just this morning everything fell into place.

Of course, the first room Ronan started actually unpacking? Was the kitchen.

[Open for visitors, phone calls, emails, whatever!]