For but a moment, Sigurd cursed the machinations of the gods. It seemed he was destined to be made a murderer of women once again by the necessities of tournament. He would never be comfortable with the slaying of the fairer sex, perhaps due to some archaic nobility or for personal reasons he never disclosed. Regardless, it would seem another would meet his blade before long, he did not relish the thought. Standing tall and silent he watched the spear-woman trudge through the gate and into the point of crossing that was to be their arena, and for one of them, their grave. 

His own observations were made quickly and without ceremony. Spear, shield and armour with a pretty face. No easy contest awaited him. With a resigned air he shrugged his shoulder causing his knapsack to drape down into his arm. He thrust it aside, dropping it beside the rock to his right, and looked up as the woman began to speak. Perhaps by some divination of the Mountain and the desires of the gods themselves, her tongue seemed decipherable to his ears. He allowed her the speech, remembering a time when he himself asked such questions on entering a tournament, the similarities struck him and an odd feeling of familiarity unsettled him. When all fell silent he looked on for a moment, fixing her with eyes that seemed weary before their time. Finally, when it seemed unlikely he would reply, his lips parted.

“I am Sigurd Stoneheart. I climb this mountain for my own reasons, but I will tell you that I seek one who has the power to undo a great injustice and save many lives. I believe your cause is also just, steel yourself and may your gods grant you entry to their halls if you fall.” Sigurd knew this contest was fated, destined even. Blood had to be shed as once more violence the most primitive of tools would serve as the decider. It was a dark circle, one which only death could release him from or so he had thought. Now he had tasted death, it had not served its purpose. 

Sigurd drew his longsword from his left hip with his right hand, the steel breaking free of its sheath with a leathery rasp. Facing his foe he stood with his left side and foot forward, his shield held half a foot from his body angled away from him and providing cover for his front. His longsword he held low facing his soon to be opponent, a little behind his shield. Between the two of them, off to his right, was a crevice in the cliff-edge that likely offered a swift death on the ground far below. He waited to see how she would approach, or if she would.