In a tumultuous land there reigned a shapeless scourge. A creature so foul its own mother wouldn’t records its music recitals. It lay waste to the living and overcrowded the dead. It was an unwelcome guest, like a friend who stayed for dinner after everyone else had left. The diabolical thing had to be stopped.
Unsurprisingly, a conveniently named hero, Valiant the Aforementioned, rose to combat the beast. Backed by the living and the dead Valiant confronted it. Valiant fought with great vigor and panache but the mighty weapon, Vis, could not land a blow on its ever-changing bodus. Fire had to be fought with fire. An ironically flaming bolt of lightning struck Vis changing its shape and forming a new weapon. As the beast changed so did Vis. For many days and as many nights they fought until finally the beast was slain. Thus it earned its name, The Slain. We’re not sure what they called it before then.
With The Slain eradicated the world saw a momentary lapse of calm. 50 ish years later it would be the glorious Weapon Age. Weapons of every shape, size, texture and trademark were commonplace. In this age there was great uproar and debate for no one could agree on which weapon had delivered the final blow to The Slain. Was it a sexy sword? An angry axe? A handsome hammer? A less attractive hammer? Perhaps his bare hands or even bear hands? No one knew for certain except for Rosebush the Present, sort of. She had been there when Valiant had slain The Slain. At the time she was a practicing wizard and had disguised herself as a rosebush when stuff started getting real. Struck by a stray bolt of fire she was gifted with a conveniently long lifespan.
Now, she slept at all times, her advanced age keeping her in a comatose state. However, once a year she would awaken from her slumber and say: “Oh! I remember now, it was definitely [insert weapon here].” The greatest wielder of that weapon would become its master. No one dared question Rosebush the Present. It was said that a magical moss surrounded her and it allowed her to sense your doubt, also she smelled.
As the weapons increased in number so did the arguing increase. Tournaments were held, duels, card games, casual sport matches, professional sport matches and even a few rap battles all to decide which was the greatest weapon. However, they never came to a satisfactory conclusion. Weapon masters of all varieties met at the Conference of Blades and Hammers and Whips and Scythes and Spears… The name was soon shortened to the Conference of Chops and Slices. In this year, 50 ish years after the slaying of The Slain, there was a unanimous decision for the first time, pretty much, ever. There was a legend that the 50th master would guide the others to the truth. Upon hearing the final announcement the masters would set out in search of Valiant the Aforementioned and ultimately determine which weapon was… the ultimate.
The day was soon upon them and like moths to a flame they made for the small village of Land’s Good, where Rosebush chilled. They gathered around her, at a safe distance. 49 masters held their collective breath as she awoke. Her rose red eyes opened as if she had been reborn and she uttered that frustratingly familiar phrase: “Oh! I remember now, it was definitely…” but before she could finish she burst into a cloud of metaphorically rich rose petals that floated on the breeze of storyline inconsistency. Anisha the Sickle-Wielder raised her hammer and cried: “Perhaps the petals will point out our path!” Like huge lumbering children they gave chase going north to the outskirts of the town. With narratively unimpressive astonishment they found that it was not some strong he-man or unassuming child that was the chosen one. The petals floated dreamily and tauntingly in the air before finally landing on Felix the Furry, the town’s neighbourhood cat, whose ginger hind paws resembled leather shoes.
Beardface the Brash picked him up and bellowed: “Genius, we shall throw cats at them!”
At that Felix the Furry replied: “Your beard is truly impressive but it will not spare you from my flurry.” Then Felix the Furry scratched Beardface the Brash with his gleaming claws. He landed impressively and dusted himself off. It was then obvious to them that this cat was powerful. Rosebush had spoken for the final time. She was gone. Felix had been chosen and he would lead them to the truth. And here they began their journey, Felix and the 49.