It's sunset before he makes his way back to the far side of the woods, still looking white and sick and spent. His knuckles have taken damage from the bark of several innocent trees, but otherwise he's in one piece, at least literally.

Gunshot to the heart, as neat as these things can ever be. He's lying very still and oddly graceless on the immaculate Mansion floor, still with that vaguely stunned expression, and quite beyond resuscitation.

[friends, relations and alarmed passersby feel free to react here, to save spamming Lascelles' intro. :D]