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Vance liked to say he knew how to deal with troubling situations when they arose.

In a place like this, it was a requirement in all honesty. Preparing for the curveballs you'd be thrown right from left field, and just as much for the absence of them, whether they decided to arise 'unexpectedly' afterwards or not. And regardless of whether you could cling to life or reignite it within yourself, sometimes the extent to which the trouble rolled off your back would give a better impression of you than your current state of living.

Vance believed he had that nailed. He was a decent fighter--when he'd had to take part in a fight at all. Things had happened over his head a lot of the time, but that appeared to be helpful in his eyes: wasn't saving your strength like a strength in its own way? There was complacency in decency. In whatever downtime he was granted, he'd turned over many a theoretical dilemma in his mind. He'd thought of ways to tackle altercations both physical and mental, plus a mixture of such (as such was often the way, here). Plenty had been building up in his head and on his tongue as he'd tunneled up to address the commotion outside.

But all of it vanished in seconds when met with the sight above his nest.

Granted an eerie aura by the blinding sunlight, the giant half-sat and half-crouched over his very horizons. He was lean yet radiated strength and assurance--of what, Vance didn't know, but something for sure. Fur of varying shades of brown and gold grew across his body, adorning rounded ears and a long, sinuous tail. The hand resting near the entrance to Vance's home shared the dusting of fur, and boasted unsettling claws atop long, motionless fingers.

Eyes blazing with freakish fire, locked onto his frozen form with damning fervour. Predatory jaws parting. "So, you fucked with Fortune, right?"

Well, here it was. A situation. Plenty to address here. And Vance didn't know where to start, or if he should bother at all.

Right. Fortune? The vaguest recollection of some scrawny bastard with barely-concealed vitriol under a stately surface, who may well have included the name of Fortune in his twisted little ramblings, flitted through Vance's jumbled thoughts. Unassuming and supposedly pointless enough that the memory of beating him down and kicking him aside was once he had to struggle to recall. One important enough to result in, uhh... this.

"Yeah, you know that little guy, too? Honestly wonder whether he's got a little weasel in him. Always slithering his way out of everything I try and throw at him. One of these days..." The furred figure trailed off. Twin suns rolled absently under a dark fringe of hair. "Aaaaanywho. Our dear Fortune favours you today."

Weak enough that he'd sent a giant catboy to murder him. One that apparently saw Fortune not as a potential snack yet, but someone deserving of a divine feline assassin. Weird flex, but okay.

"Pretty hefty message. Got a lot in it. Might be a few gaps, but..."

...A message? If spitting up his broken bones on Fortune's figurative doorstep counted as a message, Vance could understand that, but the fact that he wasn't struggling against the muscles of the catboy's throat at present confused him.

And the sight of an enormous butthole swallowing his sky didn't help matters, only further ensnaring the little one in unnerved, near-motionless silence. All he could settle on in his unsettled state was Fortune having settled for him getting sat on. All, ha-ha, kiss my ass except it's not actually mine, again, weird flex.

Bringing a further helping of what-even-the-hell to Vance's perspective came the realisation that the big cat's rear was fixed in its position--no moon had followed the suns of earlier to bring the sky down upon him. A method of intimidation, perhaps? It was working, for sure. But it wouldn't last. Vance told himself that. Would it?

The question would be answered soon after. As a demonstration humiliating and bodily and rancid. Not exactly of the kind first brought to mind.

But it was just as...base.

While the sight of a craggy brown head starting to peek out of the pucker seemed to help the stunned viewer put two and two together, the cacophonous rumbling and growing squelching seemed to hold them in place longer, in horrified anticipation and realisation of the giant's arriving Number Two.

It spurred by gravity and pulsing muscles further on, nearing his humble abode by the second, reignited the urge in Vance's body to maybe do something, and he responded in the measure of making tracks...back down the entrance to his den, and not to either side outside. The catboy's focus being on his dump hadn't occurred to him, it therefore possibly hindering any attempts to halt his escape--no, he'd let instinct drive him, and drive him it would into the damn ground. Almost at the end already, Vance whined and turned, awaiting the arrival of his putrid burial.

In it fell, warm and steaming, a fat helping of fecal matter that nearly filled the tunnel completely. The smell of it seared straight into Vance's senses, thick and fetid and making him choke with one whiff of it. With nowhere to go but down, and the end of his little road seeming oh so close, the prisoner in his own home took an uneasy breath and continued down to the tiniest escape from the heat of the moment.

That was before a gasp from outside, muted yet still so very audible to lower ears, heralded the next wave of it, a gooey mulching of the growing mound of shit like an absolute cacophony in the cramped, dark space. The first load was forced forwards, having nowhere to go but further into the tunnel--stumbling, teary-eyed, Vance was swept unceremoniously up in it, trying to keep his limbs from being mired in the stinking much.

Internally squealing like a pig in not-so-desired muck, the struggling runt looked desperately for a way to cast his mind beyond his unwelcome, unhygienic new roommate. From the first glimpse of the serpent of scat coiling down from the heavens, any likelihood of rationally addressing the situation had been scoured from his brain, and he only groped now for something to distract himself from his failure. The certainty that he would not just die like this was all that kept him going. But right now he needed to think clearly, without the steaming byproducts of a catboy's body roasting his mind alive.

One frantic sideways glance, followed by a squint closer, achieved that. Originating from the glistening, brown, invasive instigator, no less.

Something off-white, only visible to an extent, and yet still capturing his attention to the point that everything else seemed to freeze.

It was macabre, knowing someone's bones. But Vance was no stranger to death by now. He'd seen every so many skeletons, corpses and those that couldn't pass for either. He knew which warranted mourning, which scorning, and which no real acknowledgement given that their body likely lived afresh not too far away on the Plane...by Plane standards.

But he knew these bones.

And he knew when their owner wasn't coming back.

The jaguarundi boy's back arched, an airy huff leaving his stately face. He blinked with practiced elegance despite having no-one visible in particular to impress, of his dimensions at least--although the back of his mind forever kept wind of the theory of parties less visible.

Another load of waste made its exit, clumping up where the burrow had once framed Vance's gobsmacked expression so deliciously. It made a hearty splat as it did so, sending some errant flecks across the dirt and grass.

Quite satisfying, this. As tricksy as Fortune was, and as frustrating as it sometimes was to navigate the minefields of conversation of the little guy...being the messenger of such a messy yet simple statement? It certainly had its perks.

Malinki perked his ears. The sound of his shit oozing down the tunnel: it wasn't so much what he was doing as it was the effect it was likely having on his victim, making his breath catch and his claws scrape the earth. And-- ooh, yes. Those distinctive, often prickly bumps. They felt so nice when they came out at the right angle.

He could feel the last lot coming out, and sighed as it tapered off to coat the pile. A prolonged fart acted as the finishing fanfare--another round of sour, bodily fumes to top it all off. The jaguarundi demi began to straighten up, careful not to turn around yet. Whether it was psychological or not, he'd found by now that the smell would hit worst once he did that.

And through the feeling of it leaving him, the thickness and texture, conveyed to him by his alert ears in tandem with the working of his sphincter, he had enough of an idea of how it would look anyway.

This round wasn't the largest, but it had run its course with aplomb.

Malinki's head tilted, a subtle vibration through the earth having reached his curled fingers. It was followed soon after by a muffled whining, and some localised bursts of movement from the pile of shit and earth he'd just lifted his tail over. It all squished and squirted through the initial covering of crap, suggesting quite the internal struggle underground.

"Yep. Says all it needs to, that." The catboy started to talk, more due to the principle of it than anything else. He figured he would only be comprehended a little, if at all. "I'm sure whoever that was near the middle can explain it well enough, if you don't get the picture." It made sense enough in his eyes and ears. And nose. A lot had been stated in one gastrointestinal gesture.

An impression of the little interloper. And a potential promise.

Kicking a fair amount of rocks and grass over the steaming mound, Malinki briefly paused to watch his message, well, sink in. A veritable hotbox of shit and gas had come together in moments. Soon to become sweltering warm in this heat. Suffocating. Maybe it would sink out of sight entirely. Most certainly out of mind.

Then once the smell started to tease at his nostrils, the catboy promptly turned his tail, and his mind in turn to other things. No sense lingering on this shit.

He had standards.