Sigurd’s style was cautious, careful, defensively minded. It was why he was still alive despite the extreme danger of his chosen profession. The first step in any coming conflict was to acquire ground, good ground. The position one acquires preluding the onset of battle could be argued the most important factor in devising victory. In every combat Sigurd found himself a part of he always strived to adhere to this rule. Hence, like previous, he had immediately headed towards the middle of what he expected would be the bordered region. 

His journey had been cut short by two things, a stream cutting off further southern travel and the approaching form of his enemy on the other side. He stopped himself just five feet from the edge, controlling the earth as it were. He watched beneath his helm, observing quickly while he could what it was he faced. The man was large, with no obvious weapons and no shield, bulked out with some form of armour. Without further ado Sigurd plucked one of his well weighted throwing axes from his belt and chucked it into the air, catching the handle deftly as he watched his enemy’s approach. He planned to meet him if he crossed.