What Fantasy Franchises Deserve a Licensed Beer? Plus Savage Journal 9.

As you’ve no doubt come to expect from this hard-hitting, contemporarily relevant web log, today I’m wresting with yet another vital topic of global significance. What Fantasy Franchises Deserve a Licensed Beer?

Some, of course, have already joined that exclusive club. (Probably more than I’m aware of, so I might get schooled by those of you more clued in than I.) Game of Thrones had a beer line. (I had one of those myself, the Night King Double IPA. I liked it.) I recall drinking a couple of Star Trek beers in Las Vegas at the Star Trek Experience. (Roman Ale, I believe. Though that was long ago, so my memory might fail me.) Hellboy even got in on the game, with a line of beers almost all of which weighed in at 6.66% ABV. (Full disclosure: I had a peripheral involvement in that project, drafting contracts. So take any opinion I express with a grain of salt.) The IPA was decent. I quite liked the Barley Wine (at 9.99%.) I did not much care for the Abe Sapien Indigo Blue Fruit Ale. (Which actually poured green.)

So this is a well-worn path. Who else should walk it? The Lord of the Rings seems a natural, and I could spend a lot of (enjoyable) time pondering beer names and styles. But I have to imagine that the Green Dragon, located in the Hobbiton set in New Zealand, already has this covered. Spoiling my sport. What else then?

How about Dune? Spice and beer are a natural. (No, not pumpkin spice. Bite your tongue.) A Belgian style, perhaps, with coriander. Or a spiced Christmas ale. I imagine some sort of French Farmhouse ale might yield a spice SOURdaukar. I’ll stop there, leave the rest of the naming fun to you.

What about The Expanse? Brewing with mushrooms is notoriously tricky. But it would be internally consistent with the established universe building. And certainly Amos Burton deserves a beer.

Conan? I can see a Cascadian Dark Ale called Queen of the Black Coast. And what about Balthus and Slasher? Conan needs something to drink to their shades. Pict-related names should come easily enough. Why isn’t there a line of Conan beer? Schwarzenegger, Mamoa, and Moeller would be fine pitchmen.

Lesser known properties, such as either The Dresden Files or The Garrett Files offer excellent conceptual beer hooks for those who’ve read the books, but neither are well enough known to the public at large. What do you think?

And my work? Well, that would be cool and I’d be game. But Karl Thorson would be happy enough with a Tecate.

Those of you still following the travels of Magnus Stoneslayer may continue with him below. If you’ve missed any entries, search under the Category of Savage Journal.



It may interest you to note, dear diary, that in order to sustain his contempt for

civilization the barbarian warrior must periodically immerse himself in it. And so I resolved today to debauch myself in the fleshpots of Bandahar. Bandahar spreads its welcoming, decadent arms a hundred leagues to the south, so I had a fair trek before me. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I could take the first step on the journey I had to unload the two travelers who had insinuated themselves under my protection. You recall those two pests, I trust, dear diary: the mocking Yaslina and the detestable sorcerer Vetrius.

               Shedding unwanted companions can prove a delicate proposition. A savage swordsman is not burdened by civilized man’s code of behavior (oft a slippery, legalistic credo easily evaded by those hypocrites, but that is a digression for another time) but he does possess a certain primitive chivalry. You see my dilemma, don’t you dear diary? How could I – once I’d taken them under my wing – in good conscience abandon them, despite their being, respectively, an ungrateful vixen and a loathsome practitioner of the dark arts? In the wilderness, without my strong right arm, they might not survive. On the other hand, if I spent much longer in their company, I might slay them myself.

In the end, the matter resolved itself. As my mental brow furrowed behind my stoic mask (like the visage of a stone demigod looming dispassionately over prostrate worshipers in an Agossian temple) we encountered a patrol from a frontier outpost of the Zantian Empire.

Without even a perfunctory thank you, my two leaches detached themselves from me and glommed onto the patrol. Yaslina paused only long enough to say, “No doubt you’ve a full slate of slaying and bicep flexing ahead of you. We’ll not keep you from it longer.”

The cheek! Well, dear diary, until tomorrow, when I turn my face south to Bandahar, I

remain yours truly,

Magnus Stoneslayer.

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