The arena was a brutal sport, but raiding could be considered all the same. His mind was a blur of activity, his memories a wash of concern and longing to see if he could stumble upon a familiar face, his body loosening as he took those small steps forward and eyes fixated on the shadow that stood out with each flicker of the light. There were certain morals to the fight, to attacks and to war and manners to be followed but this was completely different from what he had gathered in the short time he had to listen. An event, pitching individual against individual, and despite there being teams Ragnar didn't even have the time to know who they were and in the end it was all death, all the same. Still, in his chest he silently held to the idea of the gods, keeping them close and their weaving of his fate in their palms.

If he had to fight, he had to fight and if anything it was something he knew how to do.

Quietly still, he took slow, hushed breaths and kept his hold upon the metal bar within his hand, holding it like he would an axe, the rope he gathered tethered to his hip. The clothing felt weak upon his body, it was harder to move in, the shoes upon his feet not something he was used to but he kept stealth as his ally. Ducking into the darkness, he listened out for the sound of footsteps, hearing them draw closer and watching the shadow loose it's length. From around the corner he pressed his body against the wall, waiting with baited breath until there was a figure from the cross-section of the tracks. The others physical form was faceless and unknown but Ragnar wasted little time in shoving his weight from his feet and throwing his body against the other, his aim to catch him off-guard, off-balance and throw him into the collected waters that rested between the rails.

If successful, his follow up is swift to descend upon him, making a grab for the collar of the others clothing, his free hand holding tight to the weapon in his grasp and raising it to his side.