He let him pick the sword up.

There wasn't any playing with toy swords anymore while the garden smelled of fallen apples and summer heat.
On the other side of that coin was a deeper engraving. The copper-headed bastard, and his sword, and his tricks that his magic couldn't prevail. The relentless force that, like wildfire, like a tidal wave that brought destruction, would find its way around, over or through the obstacle - such was the Captain. And the Captain was fond of different games.

And so, he let the catspaw pick the sword back up. Another swipe, cutting a low howl through the air - the droplets of the blood slid off the silvered edge and rippled across the pond's surface.
He was ready for a half-hearted, overly excited attack. The opponent was taller, but Walter was sturdier. Tempered. Life's heat nested in him and death's chill grasp failed to take him, so many times now.

Unlike the Captain, he did not enjoy seeking a fight, and sinking teeth into death so it would retreat in horror. But not unlike his adoptive father, his mentor, his breaker - Walter had a carnivorous streak, himself. He could enjoy his fights. He did enjoy surviving more, however.

A short clash, broken by a kick to Laric's pelvis dangerously close to the groin, enough to bruise, and Walter back-stepped , finding his foot landing at the edge of the pond.
In the darkness, he was certain, the crossbows still followed their movements.
This was not an honorable duel. This was not a spar between friends.

"If I cut again, will you fight one-armed, Catspaw?" his voice carried calmly in the quiet of the garden. Not even nearly out of breath, even with his condition.

Then, he would lunge forward, and, with a brief feint - swipe, aiming to disable that sword arm for good.
 
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"I'd not waste breath making requests of a disloyal man," echoed back the verbal cut, colder than the remnant breaths of winter rolling into a spring night.

Walter righted himself, regained the balance. Another feint caught, a retreat a touch too slow, but darkness did not bloom with whispers. Just a man, precision not only in the tilt and speed of his blade's flourishes - but in how he moved out of a blow that could be lethal, turning on his heel and switching their positions from where they've started.

The blade pierced flesh, and there was finally a sound from the lord besides mocking words. A gasp of pain, clenched teeth, stifled in the throat almost immediately.
Brows furrowed. His opponent was clearly going to engage with lethality.

It carried in the air in the aftershocks of clashing steel. The scent of blood and - sage, and something earthy.
Laric's shielding hand was cut. Just barely, pain coming in an itch - when did the cut ever land?

Walter braced in the few steps parting, and stepped forward in another attack, his shadow trembling, growing bleak, to try and maneuver Laric closer to the pond's cut stone edge.
 
He wouldn't let It overcome him. Not for this, even though the man opposing him was going for the arteries. Laric had no way of knowing, and that's what mattered. What decisions the man would make not knowing.
Although, with the lack of commitment, Walter would also accept the possibility that there was simply no consideration for circumstances.

The Shroud coursed through him, coarse humming against his mind, raucous screeching laughter, voices of everyone who came before, and some still there. He could just let it spill a little more, now, when there was lethal danger...

The pain shot from his hand, to the point of impact against his body, and then bounced right into the fresh poke below-but-not-too-bad the clavicle. Oh gods-

The world went white for a split second, and then he landed, barely surviving on reflex.
The pressure let up, and he collapsed into himself, world much too sharp and the fresh cuts much too raw.

A half-beat later, and he could feel the cold sweat on his neck, rolling down his spine and soaking the shirt. The stars and the lantern had their own halos. The sparks at the bottom of the pupils dimmed.
Still too frail.

Teeth grit. He was on the ground, sword right beside him, but the next move could see him killed. It was over, either the fight or the thing he'd kept from the observing Huntsmen so far.
He could not afford to be weak. There was no alternative.

Words went somewhere, tangled in the burning throat. He stared at the catspaw's sword, then up into the face.
No derision. No anger. No attempt to taunt.
If only he had words to finish this, or strength to get from leaning onto his elbow and back on his feet.
 
The dark eyes measured Laric with something almost akin to pity, Walter's breath ragged as pain kept coursing through him with each heartbeat, concentrated on the wound that was still bleeding.
He had to un-fray. It was an instinct now, an instinct past his human senses that demanded that he was whole as soon as possible, as much as possible. As he was before.

"Gods alone know what you came here for," he whispered after he'd finally managed to get enough air into the lungs.

In the dark garden, shadows were moving. Garrick remained at the other side of the pond, but Walter knew the man had a great hand with a longbow. The others... filtered in, at a distance, bolts on crossbows readied to be pulled up.
Best not get up now, even if he could... which, he'd rather not test.

He could taste the blood in his mouth. And yet, lord Thornley offered a polite smile. His voice was hoarse, but the man powered through to offer, almost amiably,
"Fair play, and congratulations on your long-awaited rematch. You may leave. Tell lord von Lyss that his son fought worse than his thugs for hire, should you meet him."
 
They weren't going to, in fact, return the horse. A long walk under supervision was awaiting - mercy instead of a mounting price for escalating stupidity.

Once the Huntsmen were in place, Garrick rushed the rest of the way to the baron's side, to help him to get up and get steady, a fatherly hand around the man's shoulders.

"My lord, you're wounded."
"It's not deep enough, not to worry." And yet, lord Thornley seemed to rely somewhat on the older man's support, heavy eyelids sinking closed and lips parting in a pained, silent exhalation. "It's the other thing."
"Let's see you inside."

The majordomo gave Laric but a glance, about to ask if the man's life was forfeit. Laric seemed to test everyone's restraint by reaching for the dagger.

"Young man," the majordomo said, almost with pity, "the moment any of your other weapons are in your hand once more - you will be shot to death. Lord Thornley seems to have had a tender spot for you, I hold no such reservation," And urged the boy that Meinrad tasked him with watching over to start making his way into the house.

"I'm done here, clean up as you see fit. His life is not mine to take tonight, he'd won fairly," Walter murmured as he made a few heavy steps. Sweat beaded on his brow, some kind of pain. Then, his veins pulsed darker, up his neck and all the way up his temple, and the breathing eased. "Oh, gods. Why today..."

The two were leaving. The crossbows of the Huntsmen remained pointed at Laric, waiting on the madman's every move, wanting for an excuse for target practice should he not follow the leave.
 
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