After defining the board, the center, and the idea of the Throne, the next step was to ask a more practical question:
What kind of figures should actually stand on this board?
At first, this may sound like a purely mechanical problem. A strategy game needs pieces. Pieces need movement. Movement needs limits. Limits create tactics. But I did not want the pieces to appear only as abstract functions with decorative names attached at the end.
The game already had a certain direction. It was built around a hexagonal board, a central Throne, and a Knyaz trying to turn a position into a claim. The board was not designed only for a two-sided duel, but also for three, four, and six-sided conflicts. That meant the figures had to work in several different densities and political situations: direct confrontation, triangular pressure, team play, unstable fronts, and full multi-sided rivalry.
So the pieces had to do several things at once.
They had to be readable.
They had to be tactically distinct.
They had to carry some cultural weight.
They had to leave enough space for movement.
And they had to feel like a group, not a random list of fantasy classes.
The image that helped me most was the warband.
Not a modern army. Not a fully formed kingdom. Not a bureaucratic military structure. More like a compact group gathered around a leader: fighters, shield-bearers, archers, raiders, and one figure whose claim gives the whole formation its purpose.
In Slavic contexts, the word druzhina is often used for a retinue or warband in the service of a chieftain or knyaz. The historical reality changed across time and region, but as a design image it was useful: a group close enough to feel personal, organized enough to fight, but not yet absorbed into the machinery of a fully developed state.
That was the scale I wanted.
Between the Hunt and the Battlefield
Before the current set of pieces took shape, I considered a different direction: the hunt.
That idea had some strength. Before crowns, thrones, and formal claims of rule, there is the group moving together through the world. A hunting party already contains roles. Someone tracks. Someone waits. Someone drives the animal forward. Someone gives a signal, maybe with a horn. Someone strikes at the right moment.
There is coordination, tension, risk, and shared purpose.
For a while, this felt close to what I wanted. The center of the board could have been prey, treasure, a sacred animal, or some kind of prize. The group would not be fighting for a Throne, but pursuing something older and more immediate.
But the more I thought about it, the more that image felt too small for this game.
The hunt gave me movement and teamwork, but not enough symbolic pressure. It was practical, maybe even more fundamental to human life than the idea of a crown, but it did not create the same sense of ambition, visibility, danger, and transformation.
The game needed something between survival and sovereignty.
That is why the hunting party gradually turned into a warband. The traces of the hunt are still there: pursuit, spacing, timing, surrounding, reading the field. But those skills are now redirected toward human rivalry. The animal in the center becomes a Throne. The prize becomes authority. The group becomes political.
This shift also helped me avoid making the pieces too literal.
I did not want a “horn-blower” piece just because someone might have used a horn. I did not want a “beater” or “driver” piece just because hunting parties can include such roles. Those figures might be historically or anthropologically interesting, but on the board they risked becoming too narrow. They belonged more to a scene than to a system.
The figures had to be broader than that.
They had to express roles that could survive abstraction.
History, Pop Culture, and the Problem of Weapons
Another problem was weapons.
If this game were trying to be strictly historical, the sword would not automatically be the obvious weapon of the ordinary fighter. In many early medieval contexts, weapons such as spears, axes, bows, knives, and shields were central to practical warfare. Swords existed, of course, but they carried cost, prestige, and status in ways that make them different from the generic “default weapon” often seen in modern fantasy.
At the same time, modern players bring their own visual expectations. For many people, the word “warrior” immediately calls up the image of a sword. It may not be historically balanced, but it is culturally readable.
The spear creates an even more interesting problem.
On one hand, it is one of the most practical and common weapons across human history. It is simple in principle, efficient, and widely usable. On the other hand, the spear can also become highly symbolic. It can be associated with status, command, ritual, or elevated meaning. Recent finds from Lake Lednica in Poland, for example, include early medieval spearheads, one of them richly decorated and interpreted by archaeologists as possibly connected to elite status, ritual, or power; the same site has yielded far more axes and spearheads than swords.
This creates a useful design lesson: historical accuracy does not translate directly into good game identity.
A piece cannot simply be “the spear” because the spear can mean too many things. It can be ordinary and elite. Practical and symbolic. Infantry weapon and sign of authority. If treated too literally, it becomes unclear what role it should play.
So the question had to change.
Not: which weapon was most historically correct?
But: what kind of role does the game need, and what image makes that role understandable?
That is why the final pieces are not equipment cards. They are tactical identities.
How Many Roles Can the Board Carry?
The number of pieces also had to come from the board itself.
The board is large enough to create meaningful movement, but not so large that each side can simply expand without consequence. It has to support different forms of play: a direct duel, three-sided pressure, four-sided confrontation, and potentially six competing forces on the same field. That creates a very practical design problem.
A set that feels rich in a two-player game can become overcrowded when multiplied by six.
A set that feels open with six players can feel empty or underdeveloped in a duel.
So before deciding the exact number of pieces, I had to think about something more basic: how many roles the game actually needs.
There cannot be too many. If every player brings a large formation onto the board, the game quickly loses air. Pieces stop moving freely. Lines close too early. The center becomes congested before meaningful decisions have time to develop. At that point, the game risks becoming less about strategy and more about traffic.
But there also cannot be too few. If the warband is too small or too uniform, then every piece starts to solve the same problem. The game becomes flatter. The player no longer has to think in terms of protection, pressure, distance, breakthrough, or sacrifice. Everything becomes merely “a piece that moves and captures.”
That would miss the point.
Neither an army nor a society works as a group of identical functions. Even a small band needs differentiation. Someone leads. Someone protects. Someone holds the line. Someone strikes quickly. Someone controls distance. Someone creates the exceptional moment of breakthrough.
This was the real design question:
Not how many pieces can I add, but how many distinct responsibilities the board can meaningfully support.
The answer had to be limited, but broad enough to create contrast.
The warband needs a central figure, because the game is built around claim and survival.
It needs common bodies, because power requires protection and presence.
It needs contact fighters, because the center must be contested directly.
It needs faster raiding pieces, because the board should allow sudden pressure and line-breaking.
It needs ranged control, because open space should matter.
And it needs one more prestigious or exceptional role, because not every act of force should feel ordinary.
This is where the set of figures begins to emerge.
Not yet as exact numbers.
Not yet as final movement rules.
But as a spectrum of roles.
The point is to create enough difference that each figure has a reason to exist, while keeping the group small enough that the board can still breathe. The pieces should not overwhelm the hexagon. They should activate it.
The count, eventually, will be a matter of balance.
But the roles come first.
The Knyaz: The Claim
(Kniaź / Knez / Chieftain / Pretendent / Leader)
The Knyaz is the most important figure in the game, but not the strongest fighter.
This was essential from the beginning. If the leader were also the most powerful combat piece, the whole design would become too simple. The player would just push the strongest figure toward the center and use force to justify authority.
Instead, the Knyaz is slow, exposed, and dependent on the group around him.
He matters because he is the one who can claim the Throne. The first among the equals that choose him. He turns movement into ambition. He gives the warband its direction. Without him, the other pieces are only a force. With him, they become a claim.
This makes the Knyaz a political piece more than a combat piece.
He is necessary, but vulnerable.
Prestigious, but not self-sufficient.
Central, but unable to reach the center safely without support.
That is the first principle of the set: the most important piece should need the others.
The Footman / Shield-Bearer: The Body
(Piechur / Tarczownik)
The Footman is the most numerous piece because every claim needs bodies around it.
He is simple by design. He moves slowly, fights directly, blocks space, and protects more valuable figures. His strength does not come from individual brilliance. It comes from presence.
This is why I often think of him as a Shield-Bearer.
The shield gives the piece a clear visual and tactical identity. It stands between danger and value. It protects against distance. It makes the board harder to pass through. It reminds the player that power does not survive only because someone claims it. It survives because others stand around it.
The Footman is not glamorous, but he is structurally important.
He holds space.
He blocks shots.
He protects the Knyaz.
He slows down enemy pressure.
He gives the warband mass.
In many games, the simplest piece is treated as disposable. Here, I want the player to feel that the Footman is basic, but not meaningless.
The Warrior: Contact
(Woj / Wojownik / Miecznik / Drużynnik / Zbrojny)
The Warrior is the main fighting piece.
If the Footman holds space, the Warrior contests it. He is the figure that enters the crowded center and makes direct contact dangerous. He should be easy to understand: a reliable combat unit, flexible enough to maneuver in tight formations, but not filled with special exceptions.
This piece exists because the game needs a stable contact fighter.
Not every piece can be strange. Not every piece can be elite. Some part of the warband has to carry the ordinary work of fighting: removing threats, protecting the center, opening space, and punishing overextension.
The Warrior is not necessarily the most historically literal figure. He may suggest the sword-bearing fighter in modern imagination, but his real function is broader than that. He is the close-combat core of the warband.
He represents pressure.
The Skirmisher: The Raid
(Harcownik / Siekiernik / Topornik / Rajdowiec )
The Skirmisher exists to create a different rhythm.
Where the Warrior bends and adapts in the center, the Skirmisher commits to a line. He is faster, sharper, and less stable. His identity comes from the raid: sudden movement, a clean path, a strike through an opening.
This piece keeps something of the hunting instinct inside the warband.
He reads the line.
He uses timing.
He punishes exposure.
He does not fight like the Warrior.
This distinction is important. The Warrior and Skirmisher may both be combat pieces, but they should not ask the same question.
The Warrior asks: how do I fight inside the crowd?
The Skirmisher asks: where is the line I can break?
That gives the set more texture. The player is not choosing between stronger and weaker versions of the same idea. The player is choosing between different geometries of aggression.
The Archer: Distance
(Strzelec / Łucznik)
The Archer changes how the board feels.
Without ranged pressure, danger is mostly local. You fear what stands next to you, or what can reach you in the next move. With the Archer, open space becomes meaningful. A clear line is no longer empty. It is a threat waiting to happen.
The Archer should not dominate the game, but he should make players cautious.
He controls distance.
He punishes careless placement.
He makes shields matter.
He forces players to think about lines, not only clusters.
This is also why his power must be conditional. If every shot were easy, the Archer would become oppressive. He needs a clean line. He needs protection. He should be dangerous when placed well and limited when the board closes around him.
The Archer gives the game a second layer of pressure: not only who can reach you, but who can see you.
The Banner: Breakthrough and Prestige
(Chorągiew / Chorąży / Włócznik / Oszczepnik)
The Banner is the most exceptional piece below the Knyaz.
Mechanically, it is a breakthrough figure. It moves in a line, jumps, strikes, and can change the shape of the board when used at the right moment. Symbolically, it gives the warband a point of prestige that is not identical to rulership.
I like the word “Banner” because it is not only a weapon-image.
A banner gathers attention. It marks identity. It shows where force is concentrating. It belongs to movement, morale, and visibility. It is something the group can orient around.
That makes the figure feel different from simply “elite swordsman” or “heavy warrior.”
The Banner should feel dramatic, but not universal. Its power comes from direction. It needs an axis. It can break through a position, but it cannot solve every problem. This keeps it special without letting it replace the other figures.
There is only one Banner per player because this kind of force should feel rare.
The Set as a Warband
At this point, the pieces begin to form a small social structure.
The Knyaz claims.
The Footman protects.
The Warrior contests.
The Skirmisher raids.
The Archer controls distance.
The Banner breaks through.
That is the whole warband in miniature.
Each piece has a role before it has a detailed rule. This is important to me. The rules should be simple enough to learn, but the role should be strong enough that the player remembers why the piece exists.
The game does not need every figure to have a long list of special abilities. The depth should come from how they interact: who blocks whom, who opens the path, who protects the Knyaz, who threatens the center, who benefits when two other players weaken each other.
This is especially important because the same set must work across different player counts.
In a duel, the pieces create a focused confrontation.
With three players, every attack risks helping the third.
With four players, geography starts to create natural neighbors and fronts.
With six players, the board becomes a field of constant pressure, opportunity, and consequence.
The pieces therefore cannot be too complicated individually. The situation around them will already become complex.
That is one of the main lessons of the design so far: if the board creates enough tension, the pieces do not need to carry all the complexity by themselves.
The Warrior may carry some of the modern sword-image, but he is not only a swordsman.
The Skirmisher may suggest an axe, spear, or raiding weapon, but he is not only an axeman.
The Footman is defined more by shield and position than by personal glory.
The Archer is defined by distance.
The Banner is defined by prestige and breakthrough.
The Knyaz is defined by claim.
This approach gives the game room to breathe. It can acknowledge history without becoming trapped by reconstruction. It can use familiar images without becoming flat fantasy.
From Roles to Rules
This article is not yet the full ruleset.
The goal here is to show how the figures emerged: not as historical reconstructions, not as fantasy classes, and not as pure geometry, but as roles inside a symbolic warband.
The next step is more practical.
How far does each figure move?
Can it turn?
Can it jump?
Can it shoot?
Can it capture after moving?
Can it protect the Knyaz?
Can it clear the path to the Throne?
Those questions lead directly into the actual mechanics of the game.
But before the exact movement rules, I needed this layer: a reason for the figures to exist at all.
The Knyaz needed a warband.
The warband needed contrast.
The board needed space.
The Throne needed pressure.
And the player needed pieces that were simple enough to move, but meaningful enough to remember.
That is where the current set begins.