#Reynard the fox

[glavilio]

keith ward's reynard the fox illustrations (via splog)

[enchantedbook]

'Reynard the Fox' by Josef Wolf

[ultimateanthropoll]

Massacre Round 21: They robbed me of all my belongings

Crazy Redd (fox; Animal Crossing) vs. Capper (cat; My Little Pony the Movie) vs. Garfield the Deals Warlock (cat; The Adventure Zone: Balance) vs. Reynard the Fox (fox; Reynard the Fox)

Submitters say:

"i just know his cock is massive and swinging in the breeze behind that apron." (Redd)

"he's got fancy gay cat swag" (Capper)

"I mean he's not technically a cat but whatever, cat enough" (Garfield)

"like the og nick wilde" (Reynard)

[eagle-longing-for-rostau]

Reynard the Fox 1846, Granger

[uwmspeccoll]

Fabulous Friday

What would one show in a series called Fabulous Friday? Well, fables of course! So, for our first set of fables in the series, we present The Most Delectable History of Reynard the Fox, Newly Corrected and Purged from all Grossness in Phrase and Matter. When I first encountered this book in our collection, quite by happenstance, I thought I was looking at an early 16th-century imprint, but in fact it was printed in 1701 for Edward Brewster in London. That was a little surprising; why would an early 18th-century book be printed to look like a 15th- or 16th-century book? It turns out there was something of a tradition in printing the English-language Reynard in facsimile and using the same late 15th-century cuts for the following two centuries.

William Caxton, of course, was the first to print an English translation of Reynard in 1481, but it was his successor Wynkyn de Worde who first used woodcuts to illustrate his own edition of Reynard in the late 1490s. Those same woodcuts appear to have been used in subsequent editions well into the late 17th century. Edward Brewster was the last printer to own de Worde’s blocks, but by his time the blocks were too worn to be used properly. So, Brewster recut a new set based on de Worde’s original, and had his own initials “EB” carved into the image, as can be seen here.

Brewster published his first edition of Reynard with de Worde’s original blocks in 1662. His second edition of 1671 was the first to use the revised cuts, which continued to be used in subsequent editions of 1676, 1681, 1694, and finally our own edition of 1701. There are a few curious idiosyncrasies in our copy. Among them is that the cut in C1 is printed upside-down. This is also true in previous editions at least as far back as the 1681 edition. There appears to have been no attempt to correct the situation. Another is that the main text, set in a Gothic typeface, was printed on small sheets of paper, with little breathing room for margins. However, when marginalia needed to be added in a more contemporary Roman face, narrow strips of paper were adhered to the edge to increase the surface to be printed. In this way, the pages of the book have two different sizes intermixed throughout the book!

-- MAX, Head, Special Collections

[isitfurbait]

Reynard the Fox

I wonder if Reynard was a kind of influence albeit subtly to the Robin Hood adaptation. Overall, though, I like to think about him as a historical folklore character rather than a public domain character used for Disney adaptations. He's kinda a center of cultural zeitgeist that features an anthropomorphic animal from its outset. He's a traditional folklore anthropomorphic fox from conception, and already that makes this an interesting character in that regard. I fully accept this as furrybait.

[silverspadesss]

there is definitely not enough time left in the season to explore this properly but if the fox is reynard and pib in another life was tybert, they actually have a really long and bitter history together.

according to the reynard stories (and a couple of aesop’s fables) they once were hunting partners and quite probably partners in their trickery too, possibly going into stories like pinnochio’s together. and then they were caught by a huntsman and while they ran from his hounds the fox told the cat the multitude of tricks he had to get them out of this. the cat, apparently out of fear, ran away and hid, the one trick he could think of, and left the fox to die. the fox very narrowly escaped and, feeling betrayed by his former friend, hated the cat ever since.

i just. the potential for a glimpse of this relationship turned sour is so interesting. especially if pib ends up returning to the trickster realm to get his answers about the giants. we’ve seen in the afterlife scene their tense relationship with the fox’s jabs at cat and his immediate aggression when the cat starts to show a potential deviation from his trickster ways. it’s funny to see that through the lens of them being bitter after the divorce.

it also fits with the whole dilemma of tricksters not supposed to care or trust anyone, since it ended so badly. plus it would work thematically with pib being scared and leaving tomas to his fate in exactly the same way as he abandoned his former friend.

i’m just so excited to reunite with the tricksters now we know there’s something going on there. i can’t wait for what they’ll say to pib and pib’s potential big ‘i quit’ now he’s leaning more towards the life of a character than just an archetype. now he has something to fight for.

[the-swift-tricker]

the fox trickster spirit after watching pib help release the big bad wolf

[bizarre-blorbo-bracket]

Round 1 poll 23: Judas Iscariot from the Bible vs Reynard the Fox from mideaval European Folklore

Propaganda under the cut:

Judas Iscariot

so i've always been sort of fascinated with the judas kiss as a thing in the bible. i was just always like dang it's wild that that exists. i would attempt to draw/paint/sketch it constantly in high school and i didn't really know why. the way i learned the name of the garden of gethsemane properly was one time i was feeling extremely faint as one does and as i was gripping my head on the floor of the bathroom, face a few inches from the tile, i just heard gethsemane, gethsemane, gethsemane repeating in my head over and over again. and i was like what the fuck is gethsemane and i looked it up and i was like OH. so fast forward a little little bit and i watch the last days of judas iscariot at a formative teenage year of my life and i am WOWED. i watch that last scene with jesus and judas MANY MANY TIMES. i'm OBSESSED i want to carve it out and eat it. after watching the play in full i show it to my actually catholic friend. she enjoys it. something about judas in that play clicks for me, and suddenly there's this whole context for my relationship with judas that makes a lot of sense to me, a traumatized former catholic. i become a HOUND for all media with judas in it. i am like a connoisseur and archive. i am just obsessed with it. i listen to clown bible in full. it makes me cry every time i listen to it. JUDAS by the reverent marigold WRECKS me because it's explicitly about judas as a scapegoat as an allegory for the trans experience with religion and it is a BANGER. like it's so good. i buy a copy of the script of the last days, of corpus christi by terrence mcnally, of judas by jeff loveness. i listen to several versions of jesus christ superstar in full and i am WOWED i did not expect it to be that good. someone on tiktok says that trans men's vocal chords thicken like cis men's on testosterone but don't lengthen, and that these shorter vocal chords make it easier for us to sing in a strong, natural falsetto. and i think about how jcs is full of really high tenors and briefly i start drawing red lines all over my life like, BOY HAS VISION OF GETHSEMANE AND IS TRANS BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE WANTS HIM TO PLAY A PRINCIPLE ROLE IN JCS??? and it's a brief lapse in sanity that i don't take seriously but one of my favorite jcs jesuses also had a weirdly prophetic vision of himself playing the part in jcs (i'm obsessed with him), and i'm like okay. i don't know what to do with all that information. anyway. i haven't played anyone in jcs and likely never will but i am still very attached to judas as like a mythological figure and symbol. i wrote an essay about him for an essay class that ended up being 19 pages unspaced. prof was warned beforehand that it was going to be long and she was very nice and encouraging about it um so thank god for that. yeah i have the absolute weirdest relationship with judas. and it has only been magnified with each new media and seeing people's various takes on judas as either redemptive/antihero/tragic figure/scapegoat/etc etc etc. currently obsessed with the parallels between him and jesus and him and mary magdalene in jcs. jcs ended up kind of extending the obsession to the three of them. i have a bust of jesus looking so so forlorn in my room. impulse buy. anyway. love him deeply obsessed with him turned me insane i think

Reynard the Fox

I feel like a mega weirdo for finding this medieval archetypal creature so endearing, especially considering the atrocities he commits in the stories he’s a part of. There’s just something so fun about a really old story about a bunch of morally grey animals engaging in shenanigans meant to satirize and mirror our society.

[dwellordream]

he's such an obscure character that i doubt it, but is your oc reynard the fox inspired by reynard slinker (the fox) from spider-man??? if not then wow lol what a coincidence since afaik reynard is a super uncommon name

Nope he’s named after Reynard the Fox, a trickster character from medieval folklore, who the Spiderman character is likely named after as well. My Reynard is a mercenary who used to work for a company called the Menagerie, where most of the soldiers take on animal nicknames.

[glavilio]

[virtual-minotaur]

[smashpages]

Out this week: Reynard’s Tale (First Second, $22.99):

Mighty Jack creator Ben Hatke writes and draws a more adult-oriented graphic novel as he presents stories inspired by the medieval folklore tradition of trickster tales, starring Reynard the Fox and featuring murderers, kings, ex-lovers, mermaids and even Death herself

See what else is arriving in comic shops this week.

[bluehunterart]

Reynard the fox as a monk Resin sculpture, 2021.

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Kidnapped Rating: G Word Count: 2532 Decided to make a thing that could fit into When Men Weren't Present between chapters 1 & 2 but isn't plot important. I tried to make this fic complimentary to On Pol and the Eng also just for fun. England gets mixed up in Fae shenanigans. @badthingshappenbingo

In a turn of events England should've seen, England got picked up from the earth in the arms of his brother in the aftermath of their first victory against the Norman foes.

Alba had yanked him up from the earth and immediately went to work dropping his fresh-won ego into the dirt. England kicked and squirmed until letting loose, giving up. The hug forced on him was inescapable.

The words, though, he was determined to offset. Alba accused him of the most offensive shortcomings with his smile and stupid tease.

"Wha- no!" England said, offended, "I can use magic just fine!"

"Kinye?" Alba challenged him. "I don't think you ken a simple pixie summoning spell since thu a' gabhail Éire's fancy new religion."

"Yes I do! I can prove it! I could do one here and now!"

Alba tilted his head in mock thought, pretending to think hard about his claim. England impatiently wriggled. He knew his brother would let up and make him try for his own entertainment--and England would show him wrong!

"Ye'll try?" Alba finally said.

"I will!" 

Alba let him drop back to his feet and England popped back up like a daisy.

"Here, Cymru, our wee brother's gaun to put on a show for us!" He shouted and waved over another pair of eyes to add to England's pressure. Several humans looked up from their business looting fallen men, but dropped their interest once they realised it concerned the oddest of them.

His other sibling came wandering, and he came wandering while still wearing the blood of their enemies on his clothes. England wrinkled his nose with distaste. Cymru was still Druid... fully, as the past had decreed it. No other brother prayed to the earth anymore as Éire had brought a new faith to their land, and as eldest, led them alongside him. Cymru held out. Alba skirt the edges. It showed how Cymru refused to scrub his clothes, and blood was sacred, life, it was to be respected. A black, dried smear of gore was left stained on his brother's sleeves even though the rest of his armor and cloths and all his fellows had scrubbed themselves clean. 'The battle isn't over, William is on his way,' Cymru had said right after they won. It was a 'trophy and a promise for the next batch.' Alba conceded that it was profane. England agreed, because England wanted to bask in the feeling of having won without thinking about the next battle.

"A show? What's he going to do in his show?" Cymru immediately picked up on Alba's game, albeit with a lighter laugh and encouraging tone.

It almost annoyed him, but he knew he'd prove to them how well-practiced he'd became. He'd lived alone for a while after the Romans and Danes, he'd had much time to sharpen his magic on his own.

"He's gaun to summon some fairy." 

"I hope he remembers what they look like? He never goes with me to Calan Mai celebrations anymore," Cymru said.

"Of course I recall them!" England had seen many and they knew it!

"Aye but you've never been to the Otherworld."

His brothers grinned. England stiffened.

Deus vous guarde. Fireplaces that hissed and sparked like fireflies, red pelted fangs with glittering stag-eyes, deep, cold, wormed earth.

Some intuition stopped him from claiming his adventures had, indeed, brought him to the Otherworld.

Fireglow, damp soil and the grin of fangs, deep Otherworld, stumbling through a mushroom ring further than he had ever intended. The mist gates he had missed... England hadn't entered the way he ought to have entered. Snared in Fae traps.

Memory of that fae lord came sneaking back into his mind.

That Fox... England had his weaved gift safely looped onto a thick cord of a necklace.

He'd nearly forgotten.

His fingers subconsciously reached to his waist-pouch where he believed he'd put the coarse cord...

"Sasann?" 

His reverie broke.

"It's England," he complained. He'd worked hard for the name, his brothers still refused it.

"Oh? And you haven't any second thoughts about showing us how rusty your magic's gotten?" Came the immediate tease.

"No! I was just thinking to myself!"

England took his stick of a wand from his cloak. No brother ever went anywhere without mum's last gift, a piece of her fading magic which had rested in her people's sacred yew tree, cut neatly into a concise point. Never a mother ever died who had a family.

Bracing himself, he angled his foot forward, raised his wand-hand back, and pulled his own magic to curl warmly along the wand. 

A pixie summoning spell took barely any focus at all.

He almost paid too little attention-- it flicked with a whizz-zip and a little dust-like gold-snow shooting from the star of the end. 

It hit the dirt in a snuffed plume of smoke.

Visually, the display hadn't been pretty or controlled by any means, but luckily that didn't negate the workings of magic. England felt something had changed. There was a heavier static in the air.

"Hahah! Ah, that daedna go a snip!" Scotland bellowed. Cymru merely shook his head with a small smile.

His brows furrowed. 

Laughter?

But... the air--he felt it, it was magic full, he'd summoned something? Surely? A fae--a brownie or a pixie--he knew he'd done something!

His brothers didn't seem to feel it. England frantically turned a circle to look for what he'd summoned. His brothers renewed their laughter.

"I swear I summoned something I..."

His sight met a glittering dark gaze.

England's breath caught.

A paw-digit, slowly, lifted to its lips to shush him. Its eyes were granite, its head tilt uneven, its smile balanced on the verge of fangs.

Behind his brothers.

"Salute," it said low and delighted, "I see you've painted yourself in blood. Red suits you well." He spoke lowly.

England had scrubbed himself of battle. There was no blood, he didn't know what the fae was talking about. He started to speak to correct the Fox, but he never made a sound. The fox hushed him again.

"This is between us, us good friends. Did you forget your brothers are here to hear you? They do not have the sight for me. They wouldn't understand, no, no if you give your friend up you might have to explain your stumble in the woods. How embarrassing to fall into a mushroom ring."

England shut up.

His brothers had quieted as well.

"It's okay, we'll practice your magic and you'll get better again." Cymru mistook his paleness for humiliation.

No, no, that wasn't true--

"Let them believe what they will." Reynard circled around his brothers, coming closer before turning off to walk to the woods. "Follow. You should run, make it fast. Then we will talk, for I know enemies well. When you leave your brothers, they will think your flight their own fault. They might even shower you with their attentions and apologies later... wouldn't you like that?"

His tail circled a beckoning.

England wrung his hands around his wand. Dare he trust a fox of a Fae... the even if the Fae hadn't harmed him before, the Fae wasn't in obligation to leave him untouched again. But the Fae had favoured him, some Fae gave men secrets and tips, Reynard seemed to sympathise with his struggle against the Normans?

Yet Reynard was a Fae, something mysterious and twisting. Something powerful.

How well did this Fae know his enemies?

"Your choice. Run."

England let his conflict continue to war even as he began to move. He didn't think about running. His foot rolled to his toes, he leaned, falling quick into a dash that he barely registered. 

A string tugged him gently as he moved to run, but, Reynard, strolling ahead, remained always ahead.

Then, in a blink, England was under the thick forest shade.

He couldn't hear his brothers anymore. The forest arms wrapped silent around him, all else stagnated. Not a bird, not a fly. Reynard was the only movement he saw out of the corner of his eye--for even the sky had taken a break for Reynard.

Not a single gust of wind.

"Good choice," the fox praised with dark eyes, "I understood you to be fox-clever, which you have not failed."

"When will I go back to my brothers?" He asked to cut the fox from speaking further. Praise was warm, it was a fluffing of his feathers he liked, especially so soon after his accompanying victory, but he wanted praise most from another set of mouths. The words of a Fae were less than the words of a brother.

"Soon, do not fret." Its body stood stretched on twos, pulling itself into his own child-sized hight range. Its feet enjoyed a stage of a log which put it higher than him. The stage seemed to make Reynard particularly imposing with straight held shoulders and narrow nose. "I came to offer my fair hand to council, for I'd hate for such a clever kit to fall dead before his worth is known."

Its paw held out as a human hand, a royal hand to be kissed.

"Why? What importance am I to you? Why did you of all fae answer me?" 

"I offered a valuable possession unto you, my name, one I lent for wise use. Do not mock my gift! Did you not expect loyalty? And here you aimlessly beckoned, je écoutait. To gift words is my only desire... for one like you so..." it rolled its paw, flexing each toe before settling.

"Close," Reynard said wistfully.

His tone became fond once more. England shifted where he stood.

"Close...?"

"Indeed. Return your mind, let us learn of the legion which tramples English way."

Legion reminded him of Rome. Rome who had given him much--roads and architecture and words and walls--but the rebellions buried in his earth had been savage and the years degrading. His land had always been barren of rare resources, the Romans had concluded that humans were the only resource worth exploiting.

He'd lost much in exchange for his gains.

Normans could be less than Romans, Rome had been the greatest to ever live. And England had driven out the greatest, he could drive out the Normans.

"I don't need your help, my brothers standing with me are enough."

The fox hummed a tone of soft demean.

"I see," the Fae sighed. "I see. Yes." He shook his head and his ears folded backwards. "Waste, I will let you discover this yourself. Little will to realign or alter your allies and foes." The fox paw raised and tapped two thorn-claws together. 

It took England a moment to notice that the forest had suddenly resumed moving. It took him moments longer to see it was moving wrong, not how forests aught to move. 

The leaves began to crawl, faster, colours taking on the texture of wax, a grim, melting forest of greens and browns and blacks. The smudging fire orange of Reynard's visage dripped, dripped, dripped dizzy into the muddy mix till all merged into muddy black. 

The forest died as a candle did, drooping, dripping, melting.

England lost control of his arms and legs. To his silent horror, his hands began to drip, too. He couldn't move, his heart pounded a heavy thump of fear as he was swallowed into nothing.

And for a moment everything washed away...

England half-woke to soft, gentle, swaying trees.

He groggily wondered if he still dreamt. 

Where...? 

Had he woken?

England drifted on the edge of his dreams. The trees were navy in the night, visible as he swam between sleep and awareness. Imagining his body crawling off for the tree-line fooled his head, but never moving, he remained.

Between sleep he fell as his mind grew tired.

England woke.

He was warm. 

Lulls of heat were in the air.... England found his body mobile and curled into soft pelts and blankets. Crackling pops of wood drying in a fire bloomed near, washing shadows and a glow on the unrealised shapes around him. The forest was gone, the sky was still dark. He shifted, rolling to reorient his confusion.

"Sasann?" 

 Home. Where was mother? 

A hand came to his shoulder. England let himself be guided to lift from his nest. He clutched the blankets close to keep their warmth. 

Stars glittered navy overhead.

Seeing the open stars... there, no shelter overhead. No roof. There was no mother to wonder about. No... she was a memory.

England pulled the blankets closer. 

Alba... his brother was next to him, carefully and silently checking him.

His brothers were camped in a cove of rocks, he saw. Éire was missing, Cymru and Alba were the only ones left by his side.

England barely remembered his dream... fae-like. It should've been real. It had been midday when he'd... left, right? Or after? Had he gone at all? The fae might've warped time, slowing their meeting had lasted longer than it had seemed. The memory of it was slipping unnaturally... replacing the memory was a cotton-stuffed spiderweb that reeked of fairy magic.

That made him frightened.

"What happened?" England leaned against Alba. Scotland's face was shrouded by the glow of the fire.

"... Ah dinnae ken. You ran aa we dinnae find you 'til late... you were sleeping ablow a Hawthorn."

England took a deep breath. 

Hawthorn, the wood home of fae. Those who slept below would rarely wake again.

"What were you doin' ablo a Hawthorn?" His brother spoke in such a resigned, pained voice.

"I don't know I... I-I didn't go to the Otherworld."

 The fox had taken him into the forest, the place that had melted. But? Had he? Had the forest been made of otherworld tree?

England wrung his hands.

It had been odd tree-kind, mute and dead. No bug, no bird, no living he had heard. The forest had been wrong... warped as otherword things were. It could have been fae forest, for even the sky had been unmoving. Only the Fox had been alive as living things should be.

But how could Reynard have taken him to the Otherworld without permission?

England got colder than he was already cold as he realised.

He had inadvertently agreed to go with a fae. To go anywhere. The fae had offered to take him somewhere away from his brothers, it had asked him to follow, England had taken the offer. He had given himself up fully to the fae's will and Otherworld realm.

"I made a mistake," England whispered. 

"Tell me you hivna' made a promise..." His brother's brows drew together. "Tell me it wisna' longer than a day?"

"I don't think... I think-I think I turned something down. I can't remember.... I know it was short, so short, I was just... I was just with you and...then..." England couldn't say anything else. 

"That's good," Scotland said. He embraced England in a tight hug, one hand carding into his tangled hair guiding his head to rest on his shoulder. "I think you'd've remembered it if you'd've made a promise."

"M' sorry..."

"No apologies, you're nae gone." 

England realised his wand was no longer with him.