It was little before midnight when the esoteric king of curved yellow fruit strolled through the thick density of the forest, hands and feet thumping hard enough on the ground to leave fairly deep imprints. With a short gutteral grunts he leapt up in the air with surprising ease, hands clasping onto an edge of a short cliff. Pacing around in an almost circular pattern, the sun reflected off of his somniferous and primal eyes as his gaze met his goal. His oculars set on a tree, probably thirty two feet high though nothing would raise awareness of another, aside from the small hole, nearly a trench dug at the base perhaps. It was there that Harambe sat, patiently waiting for his likely ban.