You may know the stories of Reynard, they are told throughout these Northern Lands. They tell of his wile and cunning, but also of his skill and nobility.
Now I shall tell you how, even in death, he had the last laugh on those dullard hounds.
Reynard was old, his speed had slowed and his stamina was failing. He was very aware that it was only a matter of time until the hunt would catch him. He could, of course, try to avoid the chase, but he knew they would be back again and again until they ran him down and stole his brush. He must have the last laugh on these red devils.
That day, as he heard the yapping hounds and the wailing horns, he knew his time had come. He lured them on, and then ran, and as he ran he felt young again. He led those hounds a merry dance over rolling hill and down dank valley.
He was tiring when he saw Hawkstone ahead and quickly decided what his future should be. He ran straight as a dart for the hill top, slowing to allow the hounds to snap at his heels.
Right to the edge of the cliff he ran, and onward. The huntsmen would have no pleasure from this kill. Falling, falling he looked around to see he had taken some of his pursuers on their last journey too.
Alas, poor Reynard lay dead at the bottom of the stark, red cliff.
A sad end? But no.
He left a large family; all taught well, who hold his banner high and live with his memory.