[ WP ] You discover a grand hall filled with legendary weapons like Mjonir and Excalibur . Each generation or so , warriors come to the hall to inherit a weapon that they are worthy enough to wield . Across the hall you see a forgotten weapon that 's been collecting dust . You hear it call to you .

He knew he was called here. He knew what he had to do to leave. All he had to do was figure out who'd called him as worthy to bear them. 
 
 His gaze brushed past an ancient lance, its head wet with blood and water even as the rest of it had gathered dust over the ages. Scenes flashed into his mind briefly, followed by a sense of regret that was not his own. *Not yours. I'm sorry. * 
 
 So he moved on. All the weapons whispered, he'd noticed gradually, but only so faintly as to be inaudible unless you listened, or they spoke in unison. He knew he was called here by something in this hall, because he had to be. A weapon could not be held by someone unworthy, and someone worthy could not resist being called to claim their weapon. And thus he was stuck. 
 
 Until he had a better idea, he took in the polearms surrounding him. A hopeful look at an impossibly balanced spear - *Not yours, I'm sorry* - before his hopes were dashed; that would have been useful for entertainment, at least. He grimaced at the spear that split into thirty points, though. Few uses for that, except suffering. *Not yours. * 
 
 As he moved on to the swords, he paused. A single whisper had grown stronger, and he quickened his pace in response to seek it out. He was getting closer- 
 
 The instant he set his sights on it, he knew many things. This was the sword that had called him, its visions were unlike all the rest. Visions not of the past, but of the future it would have with him. Scenes of fire and blood, promises of power and sadistic torture. It offered no remorse with its visions, only a sort of thrill. 
 
 He turned away sharply, trying and failing to convince himself of some mistake, that he'd only gazed too long on it without noticing. Desperately, he focused on the other artifacts nearby. *Not yours. I'm sorry. Not yours. I'm sorry. Not yours. I'm sorry. * 
 
 He stopped for a long while and thought. He could n't look at it again, but he knew it was there, waiting for him to claim it. It had called him, after all. He was the one worthy to claim it, and he would be free as soon as he did. 
 
 Looking at the weapon that had called him here, brushing past its horrific images and taking in its dusty appearance contrasting the fine weapons around, he began to smile. `` Alright,'' he said, `` I'll accept it. You called me, I have no other choice for weapon than you.'' 
 
 Standing up, he continued, `` But I still have a choice.'' And as every worthy person had before him, he turned away and left the hall.
