Sigurd backed off - Gigue stepped in. His left foot hovered inches from the ground, sole brushing against the grass, and when the axe throw came, he stomped down, halting his advance; yet not its momentum. His torso jerked forwards, chest crunched to the knee and then the entire body was thrown into a dive, right leg straightening fully - an engine piston, propelling the machine. The axe still impacted, yet unlike last time, its target wasn't barreling straight towards it, ducking and swerving out of the way. Hitting his bulging trapezius, the bottom of its blade bit into leather, before slipping out and flopping to the ground a few feet behind - one glancing blow out of many more to come within the next few seconds. With this, Gigue smoothly transitioned into a shoulder roll: together with his step forwards, this would have brought him right in front of his now unarmed adversary, from where he could follow up with a multitude of attacks - all equally bold and aggressive, now that the warrior had his bite taken out of him.
However, Sigurd made one foolish - unexpected, for sure - but nevertheless foolish move. All this time, he had been keeping his distance, and for a good reason. What good would it do to suddenly throw all this caution to the wind?
Gigue came out of his roll to first meet a pommel to the face and slam his chest into the man's knee. For such harsh treatment, however, his body held up rather well, the daredevil that was its owner getting off with just a sickly grogginess and fuzz in the eyes. What could've easily been a knockout strike simply dazzled, metal striking metal, two rounded surfaces glancing off each other and the white paint scraped off Gigue's mask now stuck on the pommel of Sigurd's sword. The impact to his chest was icing on the cake, so to say, in the sense that it added insult to injury, yet did not make the situation substantially worse.
In fact, neither of the two were enough to stop him. The warrior had caught him by surprise, indeed, yet failed to take one thing into account: point-blank was the territory where tactics passed the reins over to instinct for Gigue. A wrestler with years training, the basics deep ingrained into his brain, this man would weather it all just as expected from someone of his gargantuan stature and go in straight for the grapple: vision blurred, ears ringing, but he felt the pressure from Sigurd's knee on his sternum, which was more than enough. Should his opponent try to move away, he'd know immediately and adjust, reaching out further to guarantee he got it.
Willpower puppeteer-ed his body past the clouded, panicked mind, and both arms moved in to scoop around Sigurd's leg, hugging it tight to his chest. This would do for time being, allowing Gigue to recuperate without letting his prey slip out of range again.