Rags indeed did not know the meaning of this gesture, but she read in both the boy's eyes and the eyes of those watching that it might be a good idea to return it, so she did, crossing her own blade over her chest with her right hand (she was right handed) and bending at the waste in the same way she saw him do. When the surrounding people cleared away, she recognised that something had changed, and naturally the most obvious cause was that the fight was starting right here and now. She switched her grip to hold her sword in both hands, and started moving low and hunched, like an animal about to fight another of it's species. The boy was still smiling, but Rags' face was grim and determined; Too focused to look like she bore him any ill will to but feral to look like she'd treat this like a training fight.

Despite the People of the Valleys regressing to the level of neanderthals, their intellect and lessons in combat taken from thousands of years of hum history were not lost. When two tribes clashed in the valleys, it was rarely a test of head to head skill, but of wit and guile. Whether you could catch the opponent's head unawares with one strong club blow, or whether you could snare them in a trap. That's what determined victories out to the west.

The boy called out to her to fight well, to which she replied "Fight well too, friend!" as she watched him take a strange but deliberate stance. She wouldn't try to copy this one. She had been asked to fight to the best of her current ability, and that meant doing it the way she knew best. She kept crouched, every muscle poised like a spring, and now they were visible, she didn't look so much like a skinny waif of a girl, but a toned survivor who might pack a strong blow or two in her small frame. Her sword was still held in both hands, semi-upright like a club, as again, she thought it best to fight how she's most comfortable.

She knew from trying to avenge her tribe that trying to attack somebody with the training of the desert people would be met with swift repercussions, so, lesson learned, she started to circle him, guard up, ready to deal with his attack instead. Sure enough, her opponent charged towards her. She noted where his sword was pointed, and what he would do when he reached her with that much momentum, and when he was about to hit her, she quickly sidestepped, but he had suddenly stopped, and jabbed at her face. If she'd committed to the sidestep, she'd have avoided it but his change of tactics caught her off guard and she hesitated in confusion, allowing the sword to deliver a blow to the side of her head, dazing her. While she couldn't properly get her wits together, she held her sword up straight to try and block whatever would inevitably coming, and it did block his diagonal swipe, kind of. It prevented the sword from hitting her body, though it slid down the length of the sword and whacked both of her hands, causing her to grunt in pain and drop the sword. 

At that moment the planning part of her brain froze in panic, allowing her more primitive survival instincts to kick in, and without a second's hesitation, she lunged at Aighrit, arms moving to grab his shoulders and putting her entire body weight into the tackle. If it succeeded in connecting with him, they'd both be driven to the floor, and the snarling devil child that was Rags, on top of the boy and pinning him with her legs, would raise both her arms, curl her hands up into fists and bring them down. First she was aiming at his head, then her brain kicked back in and she realised she didn't want to hill him, but win this fight, so she changed the target of her fists to his shoulder mid-descent. 

If the tackle failed to bring the boy down to to him avoiding it or tanking it, Rags would land back on her feet, and make a diving dash for her sword.