There was something about hunting that involved the direct relief of stress. As Bane tracked his quarry, it seemed to melt off his body. Pockets of it were everywhere, neck and spine and haunches and elbows and hackles… everywhere. One of the few that carried every ache in the head absolutely all over the body. It was enough to drive him nearly mad, and yet here he was with few cares at all. So few cares about the stress, so long as he was allowed his careful track. Long steps over even ground, a ground eating stride. Though he was average of build, there was something particularly springy about the mountainborn boy. Man. He was a man now, god damn it. That was a concept all in itself, one he didn’t want to explore.

Instead, he allowed himself to be absorbed in a world that was all his own. Steady paws over the rocky face of the mountain, chasing after a weasel that wound through the crags. The challenge was real, and he was ready for breakfast. Warm sun on his back, tail wagging as he coursed up the side of the mountain with the grace of one of the goats they hunted so often—fantastic. This was where Bane could shine, and he preferred that no one see him this way. Carefully tucked away in his own little world, absolutely perfect.