Beowulf – Oak Aged Traditional
Beowulf – A Warrior’s Toast Steeped in legend and forged in tradition, Beowulf is a session mead that echoes the grandeur of Heorot’s hall, where heroes drank deep and tales were woven into eternity. Crafted from the delicate nectar of alfalfa blossom honey and aged upon noble oak, this 7.5% ABV elixir boasts a smooth body and a crisp, honey-kissed finish. Effervescent and bold, its carbonation lends the perfect lift, conjuring visions of golden goblets raised in victory beneath timbered rafters.
A drink fit for shield-brothers and skalds alike, Beowulf delivers a taste of the old world—where courage was measured in deeds, and mead was the lifeblood of celebration. Hoist your horn high, and let its sweet strength flow through you as if standing amidst the revelers of Heorot.
Who was Beowulf?
Gather, ye warriors and shield-maidens, and harken to the tale of Beowulf, the mighty Geat, whose deeds echo through the ages!
In the days of old, when the earth was young and men carved their names upon the stones of fate, there rose a hero—a warrior strong as the iron of his blade and swift as the storm upon the sea. From the land of the Geats he came, bold and unyielding, his heart ablaze with the fires of glory.
Far across the whale-road lay the hall of Heorot, where King Hrothgar’s people trembled beneath the shadow of Grendel, the beast that prowled the night, feasting on the flesh of men. None could stand against its wrath—until Beowulf arrived, his arms laden with strength and his soul unshaken.
With naught but his bare hands, the Geatish warrior met the beast in the darkness of Heorot’s hall. The timber groaned beneath their struggle, but Beowulf’s might was greater still—he tore Grendel’s arm from its body, sending it howling into the night, never to return!
Yet Grendel’s mother, a creature of shadow and vengeance, rose from the deep to avenge her fallen son. Into her watery lair Beowulf ventured, descending into the murky depths where light feared to tread. There, amidst the bones of the slain, he found a blade forged by giants, and with one mighty strike, he severed the monster’s head, casting her into oblivion.
Years passed, and Beowulf ruled as king of the Geats, his name a beacon of honor and might. But in the twilight of his reign, a new foe emerged—a dragon of fire and fury, whose rage threatened his people. Though age had crept upon him, Beowulf took up his sword once more, charging into battle against the serpent of flame.
Steel met scale, and though the dragon fell, so too did the warrior—his body rent by fire, his spirit carried to the halls of Valhalla. In his final moments, he beheld the hoard of gold won by his sacrifice, knowing his people would live on. And so, with his name etched upon the annals of time, Beowulf passed into legend.
Raise your horns, ye warriors! Drink deep in his honor! For the tale of Beowulf shall never fade, so long as men sing his deeds and mead flows in the hall!