Gleipnir is a paradox in a glass — delicate to the eye, devastating in depth. Each element mirrors the six impossibilities that once bound Fenrir: whisper-light citrus oils vanish like a cat’s footfall; fennel and herbs echo the fragile beard of a woman; a monumental ice sphere anchors like the roots of a mountain; honeyed aquavit and spun sugar bind with a bear’s sinew; a saline mist drifts as fleeting as a fish’s breath; and a crown of egg-white foam rests like a bird’s spittle. Soft sweetness, briny air, and mountain stillness entwine into a silken ribbon — fragile yet unshakable.
From the icy fog of Niflheim to the fiery sparks of Muspelheim, the void known as Ginnungagap birthed all things. This layered shot embodies that primal chaos — a flash of winter and flame in one bold swallow. It’s a ritual. A clash. A beginning.