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Forums > Roleplay > 1x1
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|| Tea X Merc ||April 9, 2025 08:02 PM


The Tea Drinkers

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Posts:2797
#3093218
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Please do not post if you are not mentioned above :D
|| Tea X Merc ||April 9, 2025 08:05 PM


Mercenary

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Posts:143
#3093219
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Reserving!

Jahanna Medo

Female | 20 y/o | Knight

Sexuality: No label. She likes what she likes.

Appearance: 5'9, dark skin tone, full lips, big almond colored eyes, curvy build though relatively fit, wears elegant clothing, lots of jewelry

Personality: Social, emotional, intelligent, witty, memorable, caring/nurturing, confrontational, protective

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Kin:

Affiliations:

Voice:

Other:


Edited at April 13, 2025 12:28 AM by Mercenary
|| Tea X Merc ||April 9, 2025 08:32 PM


The Tea Drinkers

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Posts:2797
#3093222
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Name

Dzhersi Velle Panova

Nickname(s)*

Velle, TBA

Titles

The Little Lion

Gender

Male

Age

21

Appearance

They call him the Little Lion—not for lack of stature, but for the coiled strength behind his beauty, and the way he smiles like he's already tasted victory. Prince Dzhersi wears danger like a second skin, but it's veiled in romantic allure. His appearance is as captivating as it is calculated, each detail designed to disarm, seduce, or strike.


His features are soft-edged yet undeniable—beauty born of contradiction. A delicately chiseled face, cheekbones brushed with rose-winter flush, a mouth shaped like it was sculpted for poetry or ruin. His lips, expressive and always slightly parted, seem caught mid-confession or mid-command. His eyes, however, are his most dangerous weapon: a molten gold-amber, feline and slow-lidded, with a gaze that drips both affection and intent. People say he looks at you like he's memorizing your soul—or planning to devour it.


His hair is a tumble of burnished auburn curls, thick and unruly, falling just past his ears and framing his face with an effortless, tousled elegance. In firelight, it glows like honeyed copper, earning him his moniker as much for color as for temperament. He runs his hands through it when he's thinking, which is often—brooding, plotting, longing.


He is compact but powerful—lithe like a predator, with a swordsman’s build and the posture of someone who never surrenders. His movements are smooth and deliberate, each one laced with hidden purpose. He could pass as harmless, at first. But lions rarely roar before they strike.


His wardrobe is a study in decadent restraint. He favors dark velvet coats with embroidery like frostbite—intricate gold thread in the shape of lions, laurels, or flame. His shirts are often half-unbuttoned, carelessly tucked, revealing glimpses of a toned chest marked by old scars—stories he rarely tells. A fur-lined cloak falls from his shoulders like a king unbothered by thrones.


There is a warmth to him that draws people in, like the glow of a fire on a frozen night. But lean too close, and you might forget that warmth can burn.

Personality

Prince Dzhersi is a storm wrapped in silk. At first glance, he is all charm—velvet smiles, poetic words, and the kind of gaze that makes people forget how to breathe. He loves like he does everything else: fiercely, fully, and with dangerous intensity. Romance comes to him naturally, but it's never light or fleeting. His affections burn slowly and consume completely; he does not love in halves. With Dzhersi, devotion is a fire, and once you’re his, he will protect you with a ferocity that borders on possessive. But that fire can just as easily scorch. Woe to anyone who tries to take what he claims as his.


Beneath his soft-spoken allure lies a mind sharpened like a blade. Dzhersi is cunning and calculating, always thinking three steps ahead, always watching. He plays power games with the elegance of a concert pianist and the cruelty of a seasoned tactician. Every word from his lips is weighed, every glance deliberate. His enemies often mistake his beauty for weakness—a mistake they rarely live to repeat.


Though he is magnetic, there’s an ever-present tension in Dzhersi, a sense that something wild lives just beneath the surface. His composure is precise, but his temper, once sparked, is legendary. He is not easily provoked, but when his patience breaks, the consequences are swift and merciless. Despite this, Dzhersi is deeply loyal to the few he trusts. He guards his inner circle with the same lethal grace he uses to protect his crown. Those who stand beside him have a lion at their back—but betrayal earns a punishment written in blood.


Dzhersi rarely reveals the full truth of himself. He is a man of many masks, slipping between them with ease, always leaving something hidden behind gold-flecked eyes and half-told stories. Even those who know him best sense that parts of him remain untouched, protected, and untamed. To love Dzhersi is to fall for a mystery wrapped in fire—beautiful, dangerous, and unforgettable.

Voice & Accent*

Dzhersi speaks like he’s *trying* to sound dangerous—and almost pulling it off. His voice is low and carefully measured, like he’s studied how powerful men talk and is determined to get it exactly right. There's a practiced smoothness to it, the kind of cadence that pauses for effect, lingers on certain words, and tries to sound older than it is. But every now and then, it slips—just a little. A breath too sharp, a hesitation too long, a warmth in his tone that creeps in when he’s flustered or charmed. And it’s in those moments that you remember: he’s only a boy.


His accent is distinctly Russian, but softened by aristocratic upbringing and shaped by careful effort. His vowels are drawn out in that elegant way, his consonants clipped, and his "r"s roll like he *wants* them to cut—but they come out a little too polished, like velvet pretending to be steel. Still, there’s something about it. It sticks in your mind. That strange blend of danger and vulnerability, formality and fire.


Dzhersi doesn’t raise his voice often—he wants to seem in control, above it all. But when emotions get the better of him, his voice can break into sharp, boyish frustration before he catches himself and reins it back in. And when he tries to flirt? It’s this low, smooth tone full of intention… that sometimes comes out a little too rehearsed, a little too eager to impress.

Other

TBA



|| Tea X Merc ||April 12, 2025 08:40 PM


The Tea Drinkers

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Posts:2797
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Dzhersi was returning from a diplomatic expedition. Another *character-building exercise*, as his father liked to call them. A "necessary stretch of the legs for a Crown Prince," he had said. A chance to "practice statesmanship," to "build trust among the outer territories," and to "see how the common folk live."
As if Dzhersi hadn’t spent the better part of his life mastering rhetoric, diplomacy, and the art of reading a room. As if all those years in court, at swordpoint and study desk alike, hadn't carved those skills into his bones. No—he was sent off like some glorified courier, tasked with delivering tidings and nodding sagely at things peasants already knew.
His boots touched the stones of the palace courtyard with a muted thud. He didn’t wait for the footman to open the door—he rarely did. The second the carriage halted, he stepped out, cloak swinging behind him with theatrical precision. His jaw was set, the hard line of it betraying an exhaustion he otherwise wore well.
The journey had been long, and his patience had not made it home with him.
His lodgings had been poor—scratchy sheets, cold floors, food seasoned with despair and overboiled root vegetables. The local nobility had been worse, all boot-licking smiles and dull-eyed conversation, vying to curry favor with a prince they knew nothing about. He’d played the part, of course. He always did. Smiled when he was supposed to. Made the right speeches. Drank their lukewarm wine. But every bow he returned felt like a slow leak in his spirit.
A gust of cold air ruffled his hair, and he swept an auburn curl out of his eyes with an impatient flick. He hated when it got in his face—made him look softer than he felt.
A servant rushed toward him, bowing deeply and stammering out some greeting, but Dzhersi barely heard it. His gaze had already lifted past the man, toward the towering archways of the palace, gilded in gold and familiar silence.
He exhaled through his nose. “Tell my father I’ve returned,” he said, voice low and clipped, too tired to lace it with venom. “And that the peasantry are, miraculously, still aware the sun rises in the east.”
The servant blinked, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and scurried off.
Dzhersi stood for a moment longer, just letting himself *be* there—in the place that was supposed to feel like home. Snow crunched beneath his heels. The sky was heavy and grey. The scent of frost and iron and burning wood filled his lungs.
Finally, he turned toward the doors, his posture straightening, shoulders rising like he was slipping a mask back into place.
Let them see him now. Exhausted. Irritated. Crowned in cold and wrapped in silence.

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