Faction [GA] Uniforms and Champagne [GADF/Senators]

[Lupa Visz]

Defense Force Military Ball
Coruscant
(Formerly) Senate District

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While the gears of war turned, so did the traditions. Since the Second Great Hyperspace War's end, the Defense Force has thrown an annual Military Ball for it's active members, veterans, and politicians to gather in one place, unwind from the warfront, and bump elbows. The belief that officers and senators should be at least within vaguely familiar terms held by veterans of the war, as a way to remind each other what the cause was for.

The Rank and File however, always saw it as one giant excuse to party, in moderation at least. Wild stories of years past were passed down to new privates, but even so, troops were expected to be on their best behaviors in front of officers and senators.

What was done behind closed doors was to be left there, after all.

Objective I: Bump Elbows
(Senators & Officers)​

The main ballroom has been set up for formal festivities, allowing the Alliance's top brass to meet with senators or dignitaries that had been invited from allied nations. Enjoy some fancy orderves, a cocktail or two, and meet someone you'd normally only see on the senate floor.

Objective II: Like it's 1999
(Rank and File & Spies & Veterans)​

In the secondary ballroom, the Defense Force has offered the men, women, and anything of other qualifications serving, or having served with the GADF, a full room to enjoy themselves. Booze, Music, and a Dance Floor for those whom want to enjoy themselves is open for anyone of the service. But beware, among the crowd, shadows are lurking, as the Alliance's best and brightest have seen plenty of faces whom serve other flags nowadays. Keep an eye out, and try not to say something stupid.

Also, keep the noise down. The senators don't like it.

 

[William Harris]

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Senate Seat: Osseriton
Objective: I, Bump Elbows

As Harris descended from his shuttle, he looked left and right. People were streaming in clusters from the landing area to the ballroom. Music could be heard a distance away. Harris simply smiled slightly, unnatural and clearly practiced as it was. This was his opportunity to unwind. He stepped from the ramp onto the landing pad and adjusted the cloak slung over his shoulders.

Harris was dressed to the occasion, black high collared jacket with a gold inlay and trim, black trousers with a white stripe and high military boots in black, polished well. His cloak was made of a thick but breathable material, black with a bronze clasp in the shape of the Fel Imperial crest. This would be his first outing with the politicians following his confirmation, and his first political event in general in near a decade. As he walked alone towards the entrance, he though to himself

Meet them, make friends, don't be too intense.

Harris had, even in his last position of Premier of the Fel's, never had to get too involved in the politicking of the day. He had been elected via super-majority, re-elected as well. The Peoples assembly and senate were both made of his supporters, and his stabilizing of the Empire- even if it had fallen before he took the reigns- made his word heavy. Even the Emperor, who's recent restoration to Osseriton in a ceremonial role, differed to Harris when trouble arose. Regardless...

As Harris stepped into the room he glanced around, all kinds of beings dressed to their best. No time like the present to try and play nice and maybe even secure his needed development funding before it ever got pushed to the senate floor. His gaze was interrupted by a woman in black carrying a tray of drinks, he smiled- less forced this time.

"May I?"

The smiled and nodded, as Harris grabbed the bright blue cocktail from the tray, looking down and stirring slightly before taking a sip. Strong, kind of sweet, and exactly what he was gonna need to get through the night.

 

[Alicio Organa]

Coruscant, Military Ball
Objective 1
- William Harris - Open -
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Once upon a time, Alicio would've considered himself a man of peace.

He had been a stereotypically starry-eyed Alderaanian youth, when he first stepped into the public eye. A young man with a noble upbringing- as rough as it was- a degree in diplomacy, and a strong belief that a well-placed word and a little understanding was all the galaxy needed to be a kinder place.

He envied himself, in those younger years. Simpler views made for convenient choices, and sleep-filled nights.

But then the Sith attacked. And the Mandalorians attacked. And the Sith attacked again. All of Alicio's role models and heroes, the most well-spoken he knew, were powerless to stop the violence. It was clear the only reason the trillions that counted on their shared web of prosperity survived was through their ability to fight like hell.

Chancellor Organa appeared at the gala, wearing a dark black cloak that covered his form, filigree-like blue lace collaring his neck. He took a flute of champagne from a server- a formality, he didn't particularly enjoy the taste- with a thank you, and a thin, if genuine, smile. He found the closest gaggle of billionaires, and after a moment of fortification, leapt into the fray, providing introductions, rattling off names, executing small-talk like he'd been doing it all his life.

The war ended out there. But it started here.

 

[Damian du Couteau]

Damian du Couteau, Senator of Empress Teta
Location: Former Senate District of Coruscant
Outfit

Damian had avoided Coruscant recently, for the same reason he was here presently, there were already far too many festivities to attend. The City planet simply was too congested with them and seemingly Fondor was a bit too far off the beaten path to see the same amount of galas. The young du Couteau counted it as a small blessing but all the same he had to contend with the fact he lived just a short jump away from Coruscant to not attend at least a few. He hated to appear as reclusive or rude to the party organizers.

All in all Damian counted himself fortunate that he had at least found himself with enough sleep to stay up with moderate brain function. Though the stimulant filled drink in his hand was a welcome aide as he intended to work later tonight on finishing a few briefs for the upcoming committee meetings. As much as people witnessed vast changes in the galaxy, just much remained the same in terms of budgeting and proper administration work to fuel the great war machine.

And plenty of fuel is needed.

Many of the deals and signed contracts had already been concluded, the finer details of more specific tasks though required a personal touch. The credit amount for many of these budgets were eye-watering even to Damian, the sheer magnitude of moving the amounts required for the wars felt as moving a large planet. In fact Damian thought back to some old data-slate with some figures on how to move a planet, such an absurd concept but he recalled that the credit cost was actually feasible.

Well feasible when we’re discussing it in terms of the total cost of our war with the Sith.

Damian offered a devilish grin as his lone scarlet eye found a particular executive that had given him an inadequate signed report. He wasn't an overtly vindictive man, in fact some have accused him of being far to forgiving. But I must set a corrective measure, can't be wasting hours fixing others mistakes. As a professional, there were minimum standards after all.

Besides I can't be seen as overly pedantic with military brass and the Chancellor present, I have my own image to maintain.
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|| @Open ||​

 

[Koyi Freetaa]

Objective 2: Like it's 1999
Tags: Open
Location: Secondary Ballroom

Koyi remembered the last time she drank heavily, it was bad enough that she'd wrangled up a group of her fellow graduates and, procured, a damaged walker for a joyride to a local diner. So she'd been shuffled off to bottom of the barrel assignments, bases where the only opportunity for any mischief, or even fun, was limited to establishments hours away at best, requiring leave that seemed to be perminently denied her. So, of course, now that she was given the opportunity to drink, she was slamming them back as quickly as she could without the bartenders cutting her off.

With her was the crew of Mad Stomp, the damaged walker the worst offenders had been assigned to under Koyi's command. They'd been recalled to the core with the rebellion and establishment of the Galactic Empire, and an invasion was expected and being prepared for, though for the moment that was far from their minds.

 

[Kael Dane]

Obj. II - Like it's 1999​

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Clothing — Formal dress uniform, black tie.
Inventory — Holo-reader, coded datapad.
Theme : I think I left the stove on
“Formality is our armor in peace, just as steel is in war.”
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There was always something off about seeing soldiers and spies laugh under colored lights.

The secondary ballroom was alive — not just with noise, but with motion. Boots that usually stomped through mud now slid across polished tile. Uniform jackets hung from chair backs, medals catching flashes of the dance floor’s glow. Some wore full dress; others had clearly done the bare minimum. Kael was somewhere in between — field fatigues pressed flat, nameplate wiped clean, collar stiff enough to itch.

The music hit hard in the ribs, heavy with bass, vibrating through the floor. A cluster of NCOs lingered near the edge of the room, sharing smuggled cigarras and inside jokes. Laughter flared near the dance floor, then scattered as a dropped glass burst across tile. No one even flinched.

Kael leaned at the bar, one boot propped on the footrail, cradling a drink that glowed blue and fizzed in a way that suggested poor decisions. He hadn’t decided whether to finish it. Maybe later.

He scanned the room — half out of curiosity, half habit. It was mostly rank and file tonight. Grunts, techs, a few veterans back from whatever hole they’d crawled out of. But mixed in were quieter silhouettes. People who stood too still. People who watched, but didn’t react. Not GADF, not really.

Not everyone in uniform wore it for the same reason.

Still, the energy was good. Warm. For once, nobody was barking orders. Nobody was patching up wounds or shouting over comms. Just people, letting go for a while — dancing badly, laughing too loud, stealing time they probably didn’t have.

Kael watched it all, lingering on the edge of it.

Not quite ready to dive in. Not planning to stay out.

Just waiting to see what happened next.

@OPEN​

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[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

Velyra arrived just after the soft breath of perfume hit the senses. The scent was deliberate. So was the hush of her black gown, whispering against polished floors. Light clung to her in glimmers—gold cuffs, jeweled threads, the faint shimmer of translucent shawl trailing from her arms like evening mist. When the entrance guards greeted her, one swallowed twice before bowing. Another forgot to check her credentials.

She didn't break her stride, presenting her ID anyway.

Her gaze, chartreuse and precise, swept the crowd with the poise of a woman searching for liabilities. A flute of deep pink champagne was already being extended by a server. She accepted it with a tilt of the head, one brow raised.

"You're early. Dangerous habit, darling."

The poor boy blinked in confusion. She moved on.

She walked like Zeltros taught her: hips fluid, posture regal, steps silent enough that more than one conversation paused mid-thought. She didn’t interrupt them, just lingered long enough to be noticed.

Velyra made her way toward a marble column near the edge of the main cluster, standing just apart, but not aloof. Her presence hovered between invitation and challenge. Politely open, intentionally undefined. She sipped the champagne, dry, too sharp, likely Corellian, and made no face.

Her eyes flicked briefly across familiar faces: Chancellor Organa, masked in duty and silk; Senator Couteau, looking altogether too awake for someone halfway into a stimulant. She decided to give the room time to settle before approaching either of them. The war was not overbut tonight’s victories would be quieter.

Who’s new. Who’s hungry. Who’s pretending to be harmless.

A Senator from Osseriton had arrived, trim uniform, Fel-Imperial crest. Stiff shoulders. Polished boots. She watched him a moment longer than necessary, lips curving faintly, hiding any visible distaste of autocratic fashion, then turned her attention elsewhere.

She had her own goals in mind. For the benefit of what remains after the war – she just had to find the right connection, with the same disdain for extralegal extracurricular activities. Crime follows war like flies follow a carcass, and she had spent too much time stamping out slavers 'friends in high places' on Zeltros to rot take root however the battles to come resolved.

That was, however, an altogether too grim though for the environment at present.

Zeltros had taught her how to dance, but Coruscant taught her when to wait for the music.

@Open
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