Sep 28, 2025
Word on the street is, MAYA RUSSO (Grace Van Patten) is looking for their MARRIED FLING (AFFAIR).
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Word on the street is, MAYA RUSSO (Grace Van Patten) is looking for their MARRIED FLING (AFFAIR).
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚞𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘
The Orsini family was a noble family that was originally one of the most influential princely families in medieval and Renaissance Rome. Their lineage is one of unalloyed prestige to include three popes and a number of cardinals. Presently, the family courts its influence through its oldest son: the duke of Bracciano. The infamous duke always gets what he wants – even if he must play scoundrel to get it. He genuinely doesn’t care about most of the things people tell him at high society galas, but he’ll listen out of consideration and etiquette for the person themselves, not because they’re particularly interesting. Naturally, he’s decently an ardent person, mostly to honor his duty in a beneficial manner to his duchy and family. He’s less concerned about the woes of the elite, there are more things to worry about than tax breaks for the rich or whether the sons and daughters of the upper class are admitted to first-tier schools. It’s foolish babble to entertain strictly at parties.
Still, the Duke can pretend to care about it. And sometimes, he tries to as well. So occasionally if the duke realizes he’s being insensitive, he’ll attempt to force himself to care about the topic at hand. Other times he couldn’t give a rip about whatever someone is saying and can settle for surface-level consideration. However, this doesn’t apply to his nieces and nephews. He takes genuine concern into account when dealing with each of them.
IN FAIR VERONA, OUR TALE BEGINS WITH BORIS KOVROV, WHO IS THIRTY-THREE YEARS OLD. HE IS OFTEN CALLED BRUTUS BY THE SPADES AND WORKS AS THEIR UNDERBOSS.
His home was in Yekaterinburg, but Boris remembers next to nothing of his early life spent largely ignorant to his father’s forays within the Russian mob. He was too young to question it when they were sent to work for contacts in Verona - the Montagues. His family eagerly pledged fealty and their lives to the Montague name, opportunism running through their veins, their blood itching to dance with gold and ichor, and he was encouraged to view Damiano as a second father. Though, he would have even without the conditioning. Where Boris’s own father was slowed by his own indecision and follies, it seemed Damiano strode without misstep, making a home in the shadows as much as in the far-reaching sun. This was a man, a god, who seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else, seamless in his scheming and saving his notorious brutality for when it mattered and never once showing his hand. There was something to be said about a boy who revered the cunning of a god and not his divinity. But what? That he was born dishonest? Or that the stars had already foretold a man who dared not to be blinded by them, who didn’t seek to join them but strove to navigate them instead and find his place someplace higher.
Boris wasted no time in making himself indispensable. Upon joining, he carried out every assignment with almost mechanical precision and asked for more when many other would beg for reprieve. It was damn near impossible to be invited into Damiano Montague’s inner circle, but Boris was persistent in proving his loyalty, be it taking on assignments at which both soldiers and emissaries balked or going beyond his scope to gain acquire new clients. “Your aptitude is something brilliant,” Damiano once remarked, eyes sharp and appraising. Boris remembered the cigarette smoke in his lungs, the swell of pride that burned more. How hopeful he’d been, how young. How desperate. In hindsight, it was here Boris wondered if his own impatience had been a curse of a blessing. The current underboss was a terribly competent man, quick on his feet and possessing a quicker mind - his only flaw, his fatal flaw, perhaps, was his implicit trust in anyone who declared themselves loyal to the Montagues. He was careful, never sprinkling so much rat poison into the man’s whiskeys and coffees for it to be detectable or for its effects to be anything but gradual. Boris washed his hands and made a quick, mocking sigh of the cross when news of the underboss being admitted to the hospital in critical condition reached them, and awaited news of his own promotion.
It never came. Alvise Vernon received the honor instead, and Boris watched as Alvise and Damiano expanded their empire, their light falling on newer spaces in Verona with each day. Boris’s enemies will call it bitterness, and perhaps it was, but Boris has seen what unbridled ambition and greed had done to himself, how irrevocably they’d blackened his soul even when his dreams fell flat. Men who fancied themselves divine would do anything to retain their divinity - not for the good of the mob, but for their own immortality, and as ambitious as he was, he would never confuse power for anointment. It was because of this that Boris decided to steal away into the night, buying a one-way ticket back to his hometown with looking back on the stain his sudden abandonment would leave on his name. But very few mobs would take in an a man who had defected their former sovereign - none of them, in fact. None but one. Faron Vasiliev. A man as shrewd as he was unorthodox. When he asked Boris to prove his fealty, he did it the only way he knew how - by betraying. He gave up everything he ever knew about Damiano Montague, every assignment ever given to him, and any other name Faron asked for. It was his own penance, his own admission of how irredeemable he was and how far he’d fallen, and it’d been accepted.
History has never been kind to turncoats. The tomes of old paint them with the red of greed, the yellow of cowardice, the green of envy, they are immortalized as yellow-bellied villains who were too myopic to know of a glorious kingdom to come despite them. Boris never claims to not have known any of these foibles, but neither will he admit that was wrong, that he was a fool for knowing madness and avarice where it grew. Never accuse him of shortsightedness when he foresaw a god descend into mortal tyranny and hoped to stop it. Never call him a coward for recognizing his own efforts would do no good, for leaving a ship before it sank. Is he a villain for manipulating pristine souls into marring, for moving with shadow, for using every dark art he’s ever known to ensure a king doesn’t became a despot? The historians fail to mention that the traitors are the ones who survive, who outlive empires and kingdoms, who lay their sovereigns to rest and spread their ashes like trail markers.
Faron Vasiliev: Boss. Where one sovereign falls, another rises. Faron was the only boss who even entertained taking Boris in as anything more than an errand boy, much less an underboss, and Boris isn’t entirely sure whether or not to be reassured or concerned by the fact. But one thing he is not is ungrateful. Nor is he complacent, nor foolish. He knows Faron has every reason to distrust him, to despise him, and Boris would not be himself if he already assumed as much already. But the boss is not foolish enough to believe himself infallible, and by that fact alone he has already won Boris’s loyalty.
Alva Gwon: Useful. "You bring Beatrice to shame, don’t you? Shall I call myself Dante?” The sharpshooter was quick to catch Boris’s interest, not just in their softness that seems so out of place in a crew of sharp edges and corners, but in their apparent, indisputable skill. A man who is notorious for elegant deceit and his eagerness to defect does well to cover his bases and ensure he is as protected as he is hated, and while Faron has made it clear Alva is his personal sharpshooter and not the mob’s, Boris doesn’t understand why he can’t call in a few favors as long as the emissary is willing. And he is intent on making them willing.
Calina Sokolova: Irritation. Boris thought he’d finished with envy after defecting from the Montagues, but he can’t help but feel the familiar, cloying itch knowing in the back of his mind that there is no greater equal to Faron than Calina, despite Boris technically being her superior (it certainly doesn’t feel like it). But he refuses to let on about his frustration, never once letting his composure ripple when he knows she’s looking for anything to pinpoint and validate her own distrust. Let her scheme. He will only prove her wrong.
BORIS IS PORTRAYED BY DJ COTRONA. HE IS CURRENTLY OPEN.
THE APOSTATE OF VERONA
BORIS KOVROV is BRUTUS
History has never been kind to turncoats. The tomes of old paint them with the red of greed, the yellow of cowardice, the green of envy, they are immortalized as yellow-bellied villains who were too myopic to know of a glorious kingdom to come despite them. Boris never claims to not have known any of these foibles, but neither will he admit that was wrong, that he was a fool for knowing madness and avarice where it grew. Never accuse him of shortsightedness when he foresaw a god descend into mortal tyranny and hoped to stop it. Never call him a coward for recognizing his own efforts would do no good, for leaving a ship before it sank. Is he a villain for manipulating pristine souls into marring, for moving with shadow, for using every dark art he’s ever known to ensure a king doesn’t became a despot? The historians fail to mention that the traitors are the ones who survive, who outlive empires and kingdoms, who lay their sovereigns to rest and spread their ashes like trail markers.
And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which, hatched, would, as his kind, grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell.
WELCOME TO MAYWOOD, MAINE!
Maywood, Maine! A quaint little city right off the the rocky coast of the great Pine Tree State. Not too many people have heard of it's existence. Since the early 1800s Maywood has provided it's residents with a haylcyonic environment. Rich with a culture developed and sustained by its community, Maywood has consistently continued to grow into the remarkable city that it is. With its rocky coastline, maritime history and historic natural landmarks, locals and newcomers alike agree that it's there's no place you'd rather be.
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Maywood is a new, original character, city roleplay. We are focused on creating an environment rich with character development and inclusivity of all character types. We are looking for dedicated writers who want a safe place to bring and develop their muses!
LUKE MASON, Grimmbrook’s LOST LITTLE PIG, is looking for a PARTNER/EX and NEEDS to be contacted by applicants.
ANTONIO EASTON
Occupation: Baseball Player Age: UTP Date of birth: October 20th Personality: Jock Interests: Playing horseshoes, UTP, UTP Neighborhood District: Sporty Faceclaim: Jordan Calloway, Noah Centineo, DJ Cotrona, Rome Flynn
“ The night is young and so are we ! ”
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WELCOME TO LONDON, UK!
London, the capital of the United Kingdom, is among the oldest of the world’s great cities. Its history spanning nearly two millennia and one of the most cosmopolitan in the world. As the UK largest city by far, it is also the country’s economic, transportation, and cultural centre. Grown from centuries of leadership, London has collected and amalgamated the best of all worlds people and things. Despite its size each borough has a homely and distinct feeling and we invite you to make one of them your home.
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London City Roleplay is a new, original character, city roleplay. We are focused on creating an environment rich with character development and inclusivity of all character types. We are looking for dedicated writers who want a safe place to bring and develop their muses!