Character Creation Challenge 2026, Day 3: Mythic Bastionland
Yojan sat sullen in the brightness of the Clever Hare's dusty yard, waiting for his world to change. They had given him a jug of beer and a fat cushion in recognition of his plight, or perhaps his father's name - two symptoms of the same disease. He was halfway to the dregs when the shadow fell over him, just enough of a fuzz to be able to look up and meet his doom face to face. The horse was pathetic, bloated and limping, and the mounted figure had positioned itself between Yojan and the sun. But the madness in those eyes abolished all doubt - this could only be a Knight.
He heard the thump of the heavy body striking the ground next to him, the clink of rustling mail. "The Cicada Knight's boy," she said - her voice was high, girlish, too enthusiastic. Out of the sun-halo, she had a bright aspect to her, with straw-blonde hair and eyes a doeish amber. She was bigger than any woman Yojan had seen before, barring some of the trumpeters and outriders his father sometimes ate with.
She took his chin in her gloved hand and twisted his face up to the sun. "Well, let's get a look at you, then," she said, and he could feel the ready strength in that padded palm. His fear swam in his stomach, showing its colors - the fear of the Knight, of course, but also the fear of what the Knight would make of him. What she saw in the unfired clay of his cheeks and eyebrows. She put her hand to his hip, to where he had hung his dagger, and his heart nearly stopped. Two fingers around the pommel. A shift; she had adjusted the fit. He barely felt it now.
"There's potential. Enough to work with," she said. A pause as heavy as a dropped purse. "That was rude. I'm sure I looked just like you when I took to squiring," she continued. She moved her arm under his shoulder and lifted him to standing. She was so solid and steady and he was drunker than he thought he'd be. She held her steed in a looped bit of braided rein and guided him to walk with her. Out of the yard and into the bright holding, where the beacons were lit even in midday and there was nowhere to hide from what people saw of him.
They made to the clothier's first, then the storehouse, then the stables. She navigated conversations much like his father had, loud and open, demanding in a way that set expectations rather than made offers. By the time the sun touched the battlements, he had a new mantle and a sling, his own set of camping gear, and a pony. The animal was a ruddy roan, slim and healthier in aspect than the Knight's steed. He was told to name her, but hesitated so long that the moment passed; it would come to him later, he was assured. When they left the hold, they rode together, out into the teeming valley dewy and bright with spring.
The Knight liked asking questions, but she balked when Yojan answered too quickly. She wanted honesty more than conversation. He could talk of his discomfort, his fear, which made her laugh. He found he could not talk of his father at all. Even the old raw-lumber hold where he had been raised, heavy with stolen shields and ringing with song and shouting at all hours - not at all. The feelings wouldn't clarify; he had nothing definite to say.
But the Knight filled the silence, much as his father had. She bade him stop on the road many times to identify useful plants, or collect stones the right size for his sling, or adjust his riding posture. Once, to ensure he knew not to defecate anywhere too risky. She had no boundaries, she would walk into any situation, loud and assured.
They camped under the weight of a heathery crag, where a cloudy spring sputtered from the rocks. The Knight showed him how to unclasp her armor, how to handle, stow, and oil the shining brass mail. Then, after Yojan had made a circle for the fire, she unburdened an oiled package from her steed and handed it to him. It was heavy, and even in its cloth, weighted like a weapon. A heavy axe of new, silvery steel, so big and awkward in his pale hands. "You'll get the weight of it tonight with firewood," she said, "and be sure to hew a thick log for practice." He had barely gotten the hang of the dagger, and that he had practiced for months. She laughed, as she always laughed. "That's the point! An axe will build you up. By the time you're comfortable with it, you'll be different than you are. And besides, right now, you won't be hitting anything with anything, anyway."
She had him working with the weapon deep into the haze of the night, such that when she finally let him sleep, his muscles burned too much for true rest. In the morning, his fingers fumbled as he worked to strap and fasten her armour. Another laugh. "This will be a good lesson, then. How to sleep in the saddle."
After bread and cheese and a wash of his hair, they mounted. "Come then, squire," said the Knight. "We're off to see a man who knows the future."
Almost enough to keep him awake. The landscape moved around him in a lush and verdant smear. Green oil, warm rain, the insistent croaking of toads. His dreams were a pottage of imagery: his father's hall, a falling star, the barbed and bearded silhouette of the Knight he would become. A cave where a man hung by his ankles, shouting silently, before something dragged him back into the dark. A great and golden eye opening in the depths, seeing him, and flowering words - the right words - in the mulch of his indecision:
He wished he could have been worth what they expected of him. He wished the worth of the world, of the Realm, of his father, was what he expected of them. He wished he could have been anyone else.
He awoke with a jolt, the Knight's hand at his chest. A sudden stop. Something felt wrong about the air around them, syruppy, far too warm. Around them, little grey birds perched on the wet and newborn branches. When they took flight, they spiraled to nowhere, spiraled for its own sake. On the road in the near distance was a figure heaped in red leathers, burdened under an overabundant sack. Yojan could tell it was a woman; she was talking to herself.
He had always been good with birds. He didn't recognize these ones. Their calls were silvery little rattling cries, like the jangle of tin bells around the doorframes in his father's keep.
"What do you know of the Oath?" Said the Knight. And he knew this, had it drilled into him night after night by his father, or some vassal, or some memory. He repeated it quick and mechanical and his Knight did not stop him.
"Seek the Myths. Honour the Seers. Protect the Realm."
She nodded. "Good. We'll work backwards, then. We are in the Realm, so much is obvious. We know the Seers from their true words, and you will meet them soon. But what is a Myth?"
He had no answer for that. He watched the woman struggle on beneath the spiraling birds. He could hear some snatches of her speech as it spilled out of her. "The King, he has a secret child," and, "I have dreamed it, I have dreamed it." Lost words snatched away by the tinkling of tin bells. Yojan opened his mouth to reply. Wasn't fast enough; the old woman spouted first, "In the eye, in the eye. I have dreamed it in the eye."
He closed his mouth again, and the Knight smiled. "It's this," she said.
"In my saddle," said Yojan, "I dreamed of a great golden eye."
"Much the same," said his Knight. She removed her hand from his breast and swirled it in the air, describing the spirals of the little grey birds. "When I first fell to the Realm, it was storming. These were the colours of the clouds." A spike of ice went up his spine and the words spilled out of him, a vomiting. The same sound as in his father's hall. The Knight laughed at that. "Of course it is. The Myths do like to think that they're subtle. It's change, you know." She sat upright on her limping steed, unlimbered the trident at her side. "That's what a Myth is. We're change, too. That's why we seek them out. A Myth, unbeheld, is wild and capricious. A Knight, unbeheld, can be much the same."
His father shouting in a ringing house. Even in his sleep, the screaming. That was what a Knight was, until Yojan met his own.
The Knight kneed her steed into slow motion, and Yojan's pretty roan pony followed. A ponderous speed, to his estimation, but they would be upon the woman in a moment. "Fit a stone into your sling, there, would you? We're only going to ask it questions." The spiraling birds followed them, drawing them in, drawing them down.
"But nevertheless, there's a reason we go armed."
The Meteor Knight, Carinae
VIG 13, CLA 9, SPI 16, 6GD, A1 (brass mail).
Carries a dagger (d6), rope, torches, dry rations, camping gear, and moon oil (when rubbed on an object you could lift it renders the object weightless until washed with water, restock each new Season).
Wields a trident with a faint golden glow (d10 long, +d8 against aquatic beings).
Rides a limping steed (VIG 12, CLA 8, SPI 5, 4GD, won’t be hurried).
Ability, Star Fall. I do not take damage from falling, unless it's onto something dangerous. When I fall 12 feet or more, I may release a shockwave (d8 blast).
Passion, Authenticity. I restore SPI when I reveal my identity or intentions at an inconvenient moment.
Knighted by the Moonlit Seer, a vague humanoid shape that only exists in moonlight and knows everything that moonlight has touched. Exacting, wants everything to happen at the right time, under moonlight.
Squire, Yojan
VIG 6, CLA 7, SPI 10, 1GD
Rides a pony (VIG 7, CLA 7, SPI 2, 2GD) and carries a dagger (d6), a sling (d4), and an axe (d8 hefty).
Mythic Bastionland is easy. It's cryptic, for sure, but cryptic in a way that feels smooth and pleasant after dealing with too much awkward definition. I can absolutely see the OSR brusqueness being a barrier to people without as much TTRPG experience, but then, that's OSR in a nutshell. The ease of Mythic Bastionland is that every element of obscurity - the cryptic and random nature, the loosely-defined goals, the OSRness - is a draw into its mystery, rather than a barrier between the text and the player.
That's not to say it's not without flaws. That mystery can leave a person flailing to figure out just what the hell to do in this game, both GM and player, but the strong storytelling touchstones and heavy, dreamlike symbology can pretty easily set things right. It's imperative in this game to know what things to lean on - less going on a quest because a guy asked you to and promised you money to do it, more going on a quest because you keep seeing a bloody sword on your travels and you know that if you don't give it hearts, it will take yours. The assumptions made about the game and its environment, whether spelled out in text or dreamed up on the spot, are all true. You play with intuition over fact.
And I love this shit. It's why I love things like Impossible Landscapes, Heart, even Persona - it gives actuality to the unreal without robbing it of its subjectivity. You keep finding your own corpses everywhere, and you'll keep doing it until you track down and strangle the person you will become - a metaphor fever-hot and struggling in your murderer's grasp. It's either going to appeal to you or it won't; you're either drawn into the mystery or you think it's stupid and want your quest-reward gold.
And Mythic Bastionland makes it easy. You can start playing your unreal knight within five rolls, and they're all unique and weird enough that you can intuit morphology and mentality, touchstones and personality. You plunge into a chivalric tale that, if you're playing in English, underpins your very language with recognizeable storytelling beats. No one has to tell you to roll 2d6 for Theme; you know the theme. You feel it behind your eyes whenever you see crows pecking at something small and pale on the side of the road. Whenever you dream of dark water. Whenever the moon is too big, too pale, too close.
You've always known. Roll the dice, speak the ritual. Say it aloud.
Next up: Squamous horrors of a bygone age.
