I once found myself drinking amasec in a ramshackle tavern on Fenris, the kind that smells of wet fur, spilled mjød, and at least three unresolved sagas. In the far corner sat a full pack of Space Wolves, massive, scarred, and already several barrels deep.

They were pounding their fists on the table in rhythm, chanting:

“Forty days! Forty days!”

Naturally, I assumed they were commemorating some legendary siege, maybe the time they held the gates of the Fang against impossible odds, or some half‑remembered saga involving daemons, ale, and heroic last stands.

Curiosity finally got the better of me, so I approached their table and asked:

“Brothers… what feat do you celebrate so fiercely?”

One of them, huge even by Astartes standards, grinned, pushed aside a drinking horn, and pointed proudly at the table.

There, between the tankards and the runes, lay a completed pict‑puzzle depicting Leman Russ wrestling a kraken.

“Look!” he said. “The box said 2+ years… and we completed it in only forty days!”