The Graelings, you know, are a fierce enough tribe; though given they live on the northern coast of Norsca, their conflict is more often with other tribes of Norsemen than any other force. They do not get to perform much glamorous raiding or profitable trade; instead, the fight to deflect the constant antagonism of the bloodthirsty Vargs to their east, and otherwise eek out a living from the hostile land. It is said the Graeling land is home to the dens of the Werekin - savage 'skinwolves', wolf-changers not unlike the one you tore apart... though perhaps worse. Werekin are thought to be champions of the dark gods who were unable to complete acts of sufficient devotion to be elevate to the tables of the gods in immortality, and were instead cursed - or blessed - with the ability to take on the savage beast shape. But the werekin are savage and isolated. This cocky bandit is far from home, and almost social.

With your challenge, the caller reveals himself - a massive warrior, just shy of seven feet tall before the horns of his helm carry up beyond that mark; his chest bare and scarred and crossed with an arrangement of leather straps and iron rings. He holds a massive axe in one hand; whose steel shining faces have the engraved likeness of a biting wolf upon them.

"Mano-a-mano?"

He repeats, tossing the axe to one side and reaching to remove his helmet as well; revealing an appropriate scarred visage, and short lock of tonsured hair. This warrior knows enough of the world, it seems, understand the classical phrase you dropped in your challenge, which you had learned from your Tilean friends - mano-a-mano, hand to hand.

"I take your terms. Prepare yourself, then. If I win, I will have my pick of your thralls, and your wagon's goods. By our contest, may the gods make known their will!"

Sportingly enough, he removes even the spiked bracers around his wrist which might have been valuable weapons; and then moves out to the road. Six other figures, none so massive but all similarly threatening marauders, emerge to witness the contest; steel great weapons and helms in their hands, idle, waiting.

Such a challenge is respected across the great world. Men, and elves, and dwarves understand it; even orcs and daemons interpret the sacred power of the challenge.

Kaelveg, son of Kaelveg, stands patiently for you to deliver.

Spoiler: OOC:
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Presuming you intend to honor your challenge, you can fight Kaelveg hand to hand in the most honorable fashion by rolling initiative, and trying to beat (1d10+4)[5].

If you want to stress that honor some, you can charge into melee and take a surprise round.

Lunging in and attacking him with weapons (or turning into a giant monster with claws and teeth) will naturally foul the integrity of the challenge.
The gods are said not to like this, though they rarely intervene; but the other ambushers might take offense, certainly.