Ocean's Breath Plateau Tonight

Dante could have, at one point, been an accomplished fighter.  In his youth he had shown promise, a violence and skill that had named him pick as heir to the command.  But he had left, throwing all training to the wind and choosing to support and protect his sister instead.  He still practiced, of course!  But as he went there had been many reminders of the savage skill he had lost; Koda, Charon, even his spar with Aria.  None had come easily to him, many had been lost, and it only would grow worse, he was sure, with age.

His rage was enough that he didn't realize his predicament at first.  In his focus to keep Osprey out he'd compromised his throat, and when he pulled, he felt the skin knick threateningly.  Slowly the snarl died in his throat, and he held stock still, staring at Warbone with incensed frustration.  His claws had landed blows, but he was pinned and unable to effectively move without great harm.  

He was entirely at the mercy of his opponent, and yet the immediate danger did have one saving grace; he hadn't yet had the chance to think of how this picture might look to his (currently a little hormone-crazy) mate.  His own had caused this situation, and the pride that came with them.