Contenders

A Roleplaying Game of Blood & Sweat, Pain & Hope

4...

My vision returns at the count of five, I taste blood, my blood. The roar of the crowd is deafening, they want more. They always want more.

More blood, more pain.

I'm kneeling as the ref gets to seven, I can see in his eyes that he doesn't expect me to get up. Why would I?

Face more pain.

Now I see her, a lone figure in the aisle, cheeks blackened by mascara stained tears, her eyes draw me in, deep pools, reflecting the pain.

My pain.

The moment seems to last an eternity. I needed that, that reminder of hope.

This is for you babe!

Bring the pain.

I'm on my feet again at nine. The ref hesitates for a split second.

"Ok, box!"

Now feel the pain...

The Protagonists

Each player takes on the role of a boxer, a would be CONTENDER. However, time is running out for these pugilists, it’s now or never. Can they build the confidence and hope needed to realize their ultimate dream? Or are they destined to be dragged down into a sea of pain and despair?

Players Wanted

One to three players wanted for a game of Contenders. It is a quick and entertaining game, which can be played as a one-shot or over a few sessions.

The Game

Learn more about the game

In the Ring — a poem by Robert E. Howard

Over the place the lights go out,
Except for the cluster above the ring;
The crowd begins to thunder and shout;
At the tap of the gong I whirl and spring.
And I hear the snarl of my chargin' foe,
The Cobra Kid from Old Mexico.

And the ropes ain't there, and the crowd ain't there;
It's me and him, in the ring lights' glare;
Like cavemen foes in an age of stone
On the ridge of the silent world, alone.

He ducks my lead as he surges in
And his left hook crashes against my chin
And he shuts my eye with a roundhouse slam
That feels like the bunt of a batterin' ram.

The lights are smimmin' and so is the ring;
Blind I fall in clinch and cling;
The referee grunts as he tears us apart,
And I ram a left in under the heart.

As he batters me across the ring —
Jab and uppercut, hook and swing —
A torrent of smashes that never slack —
I feel the ropes against my back.

Hard to the head he cannonades
And I hit the mat on my shoulder-blades.
My brain's full of fog, my mouth's full of brine,
But I hear the referee countin', "Nine!"

And up I reel, though my legs won't work
An the ring lights swim in a crimson murk.
The Cobra rushes, set for the spill,
Wild and wide open, blind for the kill.

And desperate, reelin', I shoot my right
The last blind blow of a losing fight.
And my right connects and his head goes back,
Till it looks, begod, like his neck would crack.

New strength surges through every vein,
And the panther wakes in my punch drunk brain.
His knees, they buckle, his white lips part
As I blast my right in under the heart.

His jaw falls slack, his eyes, they blink,
As deep in his belly my left I sink;
Then every ounce of my beef goes in
To the right I heave to his saggin' chin.

The leather bursts and the hands give way,
But it's the end of a perfect day.
He hasn't stirred at the count of ten,
The referee lifts my hand and then
I hear the yells of the crowd again.