Faction [GADF] Playing With The Boys

[Flame of Rebellion]

Fort Bastion, Corellia​

With the recent defeats at the hands of the Sith Order, GADF command has realized a general lack of morale amongst the troops. While the war is still ongoing, men need motivation. As such, High Command has organized a set of inter-branch competitions to allow troops to regain their composure, keep busy, and learn new skills.

Objective One:
Fight to Survive​

A tournament of martial skill has been organized, with the rules being simple: No armor, no weapons, no one dies. Medics are on standby for the competition, with members from every branch permitted to enter. While personal pride is on the line, members of high command of each branch have the pride of their own command on the line as well.

Objective Two:
Mighty Wings​

While the Starfighter Corps have always been known as the premiere pilots of the Alliance, High Command has decided to put that to a test. A race, from Coronet City back to Fort Bastion, the long way around the planet, has been organized. Pick whatever starship you want, just make it back before someone else does.

Objective Three
Rest and Relaxation​

The time away has been one the troops relish. While the competition between branches has been recommended for all enlisted, it was not made mandatory. Maybe you just wanna chill and play in the barracks. Or do something else.

 

[Vulpesen]

OBJ: 3 Rest & Relaxation


Martial competitions were a fact of life on Veradune. Duels were common and held for any number of reasons, from a bad joke to a family feud. There were rules of course to such affairs, primarily that such fights were never to be taken to the death. But still, Vulpesen had seen more than his fair share of tournaments and competitions over the decades that he had spent ruling over his ancestral planet. That being said, placing the decades old Zorren with the power to call lightning on the heads of people who annoyed him into a martial tournament didn't really go well with the enlisted who had seen him fry entire squads of sith.

So it was that Vulpesen was sitting on the side lines, flask in hand as he leaned back in his seat. There was a time an place for everything, and now, dressed in the full uniform of a GADF Colonel, Vulpesen had finally found a moment where he wasn't involved with any local or galactic politics, or any force shenanigans. For once, he was simply a GADF officer overseeing the recreation of his men as they did their best to impress.

 

[Gym Halpern]

LOCATION: Corellia
TAG: Vulpesen | Gress D’ran

Objective Three
Rest and Relaxation​

​

Gym really had no desire to be here, but it was at the request of much of his crew, and the ground troops assigned to The Indominable. Make no mistake, he ordered the day passes for this for their benefit and wanted them to be here. However the Captain just thought of his friends. Friends who were halfway across the galaxy, or dead. It was not depressing, but it was definitely something that affected his mood.

Several of the ground troops were trying to get him involved in a drinking game, and while it was not his “cup of tea” (no play on words intended), but he was in for two rounds. Luckily two rounds was his limit as he promised he would come back. So he walked around, returned a few salutes and realized that he was glad he came.

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The Senator of Zeltros arrived precisely two minutes after the first bout began—just late enough to make an entrance, just early enough to claim the best seat without apology.

She glided into the spectator stands with a trio of fashionable shadows at her flank—laughter on their lips, all velvet and glass. None were officially listed as aides, but each carried the kind of poise that implied they'd seen both battlefields and ballrooms. Or at the very least, knew which heels to wear to each.

Velyra herself wore dusk-colored silk with a back like scandal and a neckline like an invitation. One gloved hand lifted a crystalline flute of pink nova fizz, the other adjusted her glasses as she cast her gaze across the ring below.

A low whistle escaped her.

"Tell me darling,..." she murmured to no one in particular, "...is there a protocol for cheering before the match when someone's shirt comes off?"

The question earned her a scandalized snort from one companion and a poorly concealed grin from another.

She reclined with the elegance of someone entirely unbothered by the idea of impropriety—legs crossed, lips painted, attention rapt.

"Mm. See him?" she gestured with her glass toward one of the contestants mid-grapple. "Excellent center of gravity. Controlled aggression. Bodyguard potential, that one."

There was no urgency in her words. She watched like a woman at the opera—measuring tone, rhythm, and the swell before the aria.

This was, after all, what diplomacy truly meant: knowing when to speak... and knowing when to let the boys with the big guns steal the show.

@Open (Shamelessly observing Objective 1)​

 

[Ashley Nevermore]

Objective I:
Fight to Survive
Tag: Aiden Rennek
Watching Vulpesen Gym Halpern Velyra Vonn​

The last two rounds, Ashley had gone undefeated. A starfighter pilot who thought he was hot chit, and another soldier from the 34th. Every unit in the GADF had at least one person vying for the top spot.

Including her next opponent.

"Guess it was only a matter of time before we were standing across from each other..."

Ashley was dressed only in a pair of cargo pants, and a tank top, showing off plenty of her old scars, taking a casual fighting stance. "Show me how the Marines do it over there, Big Dog."

 

[Gress D'ran]

Objective III:
Watch the Fireworks
Tag: Vulpesen Gym Halpern​

The smell of cigar smoke filled the air behind the two, as the Daveronian walked in behind them. Shorter, but staunch in his posture.

"So this is what we do for fun these days? Back when I was a private, we would throw each other into the ocean to teach each other how to swim." Gress laughed, looking to the two. "You were the one back on Coruscant to blitzed the Imperial line, yeah? I think I remember your men under my walkers."

 

[Ari Naldax]

Objective II: Assert Dominance on all other Pilots
Equipment: "Celchu" Pattern Wolf-X, E9-K4 "Keeper"

Final Preparations​

Ari could hear the shudder of the Repulsorlift as her X-wing lit up - all of her systems coming to life as keeper purred off his approving beeps and words streamed across her stream: Life Support - Go. Propulsion - Go. All systems were green. "No weps for this run Keeper, and shunt all but our nav shields to propulsion and maneuvering. We're gonna milk every bit of speed the old girl has in her." A smirk curled onto the Flight Captain's face as fastened her helmet flipped the visor down. She was going to win this. She had to.

Once again, her planet was at the center of a Tingel Arm Empire, ruled with an iron fist. But right, there wasn't much she could do about that. Certainly not alone. So she had to do what she did best - fly. Fly faster, better, with all the more determination than every other pilot in this race - so that at the end of the day, the X-wing making its rounds would be Revenant 5 - with the beautiful New Alderaanian paint job she'd given it.

Making her final checks, and lining her fighter up with all the others preparing for the race, Ari keyed her comms with keeper for one last pre-race message.

"We're going to win this for them."

 

[Ysennia Lee]

Objective III: Watch the Fireworks
Vulpesen Gym Halpern Gress D'ran
​

"Ease up sir. We took back the core. Coruscant is safe, learn to lighten up." Ysennia said to Gress. Despite being the same rank, the devaronian was her senior in both age and experience. It felt weird that she still found herself acting so formal around people who were her essentially her equals in every way. But she still hated it. Being trusted with command with more responsibilities and more to ponder. Still, she'd never pass up a good celebration. She joined the procession with the other senior officers, feeling a little out of place. She looked to the crowd where she could see was eyeing her men by their battalion patch. She was a little unnerved as she saw her squads in different clics. The Corellians, Duros, and Selonians usually stuck to each other, the armor company were from planets in the inner rim, and the outer rim folks, the twi'leks, togruta, and bothans stuck to each other. As long as they weren't fighting each other, there was no need to worry.

 

[Dracken Pryce]

Velyra Vonn


Objective 1

​

"The Sith beat us down and High Command sets up a tournament? On Corellia?"

"Hush, Bordeaux." Dracken said to his aide. The youth was spirited, but he didn't yet have the tact of a politician. That might have been because his role model was such a poor example. Dracekn's own relationship with politics was tenuous. The Alliance had survived decades and now he was old and grey. He was like an old Alliance cruiser; respected for how long its been in service but often ignored and placed on low-stakes patrols so as to not slow down the fleet. That meant attending more events like this than counseling younger Senators and planetary officials. Most of the time, he phoned in his votes and appearances from his ranch outside of Coronet or Corona House.

Bordeaux was an up and coming politician in Corellia. Having grown up in the relative peace of the Alliance after the Brotherhood of the Maw had been repelled, he didn't know what the Alliance military machine had been then. He only knew the myth and legend of the Old Guard, the men and women who had broken the Sith Empire, defended the Chiss, and destroyed Exegol. A different time. A dangerous time. Now, his generation of leaders was coming to understand how difficult war really was. But they could and would bounce back. Sometimes, the men just needed to let off a little steam.

Dracken's eyes glanced at the Zeltron senator and the other well-to-dos who watched and felt himself grimace. Though, it was a little...medieval. As usual when he made these sorts of public appearances, he wore a modified Corellian Defense Force uniform with a leather vested tunic over it, a blue pauldron on his right shoulder displaying his rank of general. His ensemble of military regalia and war-time professionalism looked dull in comparison to the fine silks and fine fashion of the Zeltros crew. He could also feel his wife's angry glare from across the city as his gaze lingered probably longer than should have been appropriate for an old married man like him.

"Damn pheromones," he muttered, turning his eyes back to the field. Wasn't there also a starfighter race? Maybe he should be there instead...

 

[Aiden Rennek]

​

Aiden cracked his neck once to the left, then to the right. His boots thudded softly against the mat as he stepped into the ring, wearing nothing but a dark green tank top and black shorts. Scars traced across his forearms and shoulders, showing old stories, never told, and never needed to be. His grin said enough.

He rolled his shoulders, then brought his fists up, loose and ready.

"Well, well… I was wondering when you'd stop beating up the easy ones," he said with a chuckle, eyes narrowing just slightly as he sized her up.

His grin widened, just enough to flash teeth.

"Ladies first."

He tapped a fist gently against his chest in mock-chivalry, then beckoned her in with a tilt of his head. "Let's see if you're still undefeated after this."

Ashley Nevermore ​

 

[Livia Rehn]

"Woe to the vanquished."

Tags - OPEN



The air was razor-thin and cold enough to cut.

The Corellian sun had yet to rise, but the sky had already begun its slow bleed from black into iron-gray. Frost clung to the edges of the permacrete yard, whispering beneath bootfalls that struck in perfect cadence—hundreds of soldiers, faceless and grim, moving like a single mechanism under the command of unseen gears. The sound of it filled the air: stomp—breathe—stomp—breathe—a rhythm old as war, precise as death.

Livia marched among them.

Alpha Company had formed up in the outer corridor of the yard, columns seven wide, twenty deep, each line a spine of armor and rifles braced beneath steel skies. The helmets of most remained clipped to their belts—protocol for non-hostile drills—but their eyes were the same. Empty. Tight. Watching nothing. Waiting for something. The battalion had seen defeat recently—another world lost, another retreat covered in the blood of comrades turned memories.

And Command thought marching would fix it.

A whistle shrieked. Boots struck the permacrete in perfect unison. The ground trembled.

Livia's own steps were surgical. She matched the stride of the woman beside her—an older corporal with a prosthetic knee that clicked faintly with every third pace. It should have thrown off the rhythm. It didn't. Nothing did.

Her face remained expressionless, eyes forward, arms swinging with practiced, mechanical grace. No sweat, no fidgeting. Just motion. Just breath. She had taken the dagger off her belt for the drill, locking it away in the secure container beneath her bunk. But even without it, she felt the phantom weight, like it was still there, pressed against her hip like a secret whisper.

They marched.

A voice called out from the observation tower. Lieutenant Colonel Verrik Tann. Clipped, emotionless.

"You are the backbone of the Galactic Alliance. You are not broken. You are not defeated. You are the iron that does not bend. March."

The lines moved as one. Dust rose like ghosts beneath their heels.

To the left of Livia, Sergeant Kade Hurn limped slightly—an old wound from Empress Teta. He hadn't spoken to her since her transfer, not really. Just orders and cold nods. But she'd seen the way he watched her in the mess hall, the way his eyes narrowed—not suspicious, but curious. Like he was waiting for something to make sense.

Nothing ever would.

Ahead, the lead ranks turned in perfect unison, a pivot like the snap of a great machine. Alpha Company wheeled in response. Livia's boots found the turn without hesitation. Her movements were beautiful in the way a scalpel is beautiful—clinical, elegant, dangerous.

The rhythm continued.

Stomp—breathe—stomp—breathe.

Livia could feel it around her—the suffocating weight of memory in the silence between shouts. Soldiers didn't speak during marches, not when it mattered. And today, it mattered. You could feel it in the way the ground seemed to absorb their footfalls instead of echoing them. You could see it in the tightness of shoulders, the rigidity of spines. Everyone here had seen something taken from them. A squadmate. A friend. A piece of themselves.

They weren't marching to remember.

They were marching so they wouldn't forget.

Somewhere far above, a distant rumble of starfighters cut across the morning air. Patrols. Late. Too late for the worlds already lost.

Livia didn't look up.

Her mind played the last moments of the listening post like a loop she couldn't sever. The screams. The lightless corridors. The final breath of the woman. That same breath lived on in every perfect footstep, every precisely timed breath she took among these strangers. She had no past among them, but she wore one like a second skin.

And none of them saw her.

Not really.

To them, she was just another soldier—quiet, efficient, disciplined to the point of being forgettable. Her file said she'd survived. That was enough. There was no comfort in survival here. Only motion. Only obedience.

And yet, as they passed the memorial wall—etched with the names of the fallen—Livia's eyes flickered sideways for just a second. Just long enough to catch the last name burned into the new list.

Salen. Myra.
Captain. Bravo Company.

Dead three days now. Killed in an artillery strike. The battalion hadn't held the line.

And now, they marched.

The whistle blew again—halt.

The yard came to a stop with thunderous silence. No final stomp, no shouted command. Just stillness. Hundreds of soldiers frozen in perfect lines beneath a sky still dark with the weight of everything they had not yet become.

Tann's voice came again, low, slow, deliberate.

"The Sith think you are broken. They think your discipline is dead. That your courage has fled. That you fear the dark."

"But you are the GADF. You stand not for flags. Not for medals. Not for empty promises from politicians."

"You stand for the one to your left. The one to your right. And when the enemy comes again, as they will, you will rise together. You will hold the line."

Silence.

Then the final words.

"March."

And they did.

One thousand steps, each a drumbeat of defiance. No tears. No cheers. No pride.

Only duty.

Livia did not blink. She did not look behind her. She did not question.

She simply moved—like a ghost given breath and purpose, like a shadow with iron in its bones.

Because this war was not won by heroes.

It was won by those who endured.

 

[Vulpesen]

Vulpesen turned to offer a smirk above his flask. "I was there alright. I was the guy sitting next to your hatch hurling lightning at the red bladed bastards. Thanks for softening them up. They were so turned around, they didn't know what hit them when my boys slipped behind their lines." In some ways, Coruscant had been easier than he had expected. The sith were an aggressive threat, but when faced with a crafty opponent supported by hellfire from above, they hadn't had a hope of victory.

His ears flicked at the words if another and Vulpesen turned to offer her the same lopsided grin that Gress had earned. "When I was younger, I recall calling a mortar strike on my location 'cause the sith I was up against had a few more tricks than I did. Also once launched an escape pod into a sith infested temple. Fun times. I almost miss the days when the challenge was keeping myself alive." At his last confession, Vulpesen heard a snort behind him, the head of his security detail having briefly lost his bearing.

Gress D'ran Ysennia Lee

 

[Gress D'ran]

Objective III:

Watch the Fireworks​

Tag: Vulpesen Ysennia Lee​

"Is that an order, Lee?" Gress gave the Lt. Col. a small smirk, as he loosened his shoulders. It was easy to keep yourself stern when you were hold up in a walker, hidden away from jokers and jedi.

But now he was in front of friends.

"I've long told my men that wars aren't won by soldiers. It's won by the insane. The people command doesn't dare give leadership positions, until they do something stupid and prove the sane ones wrong. I was one of those. Back during my days as just an Enlisted, I got my first command of a walker. One of those old CQ-10s. We have a three Maw fighters swarming us from above. While my crew were calling for us to surrender, I grabbed the gunner and told him to fire out Anti-Armor missiles at the damn things right when they were divebombing us. Worked a charm, and I got my first medal."

 

[Velyra Vonn]

Senator Velyra Vonn of Zeltros​

The midday sun caught on the rim of her glass like a camera flash, casting a brief glint as Velyra tipped her head ever so slightly—watching the fighters descend into their shared theater of tension and bruised bravado.

Her smile was not wide, but it lingered, curved like she knew a secret.

Ashley’s posture—coiled and assured—spoke of experience. Scars drawn not for vanity, but worn without apology. She moved like someone who had stopped asking for permission a long time ago. Velyra approved.

Aiden, by contrast, had that maddening charm particular to confident men who knew exactly how the light hit them. That grin of his could have sold perfume—or revolutions.

Velyra raised her glass just before the opening strike, lips parting as if to speak... but she didn’t. She simply observed. Drinking in the moment and her wine at the same, measured pace.

One of her companions leaned close to whisper something undoubtedly scandalous.

“Mmm. Yes, but I prefer restraint. There’s something... delicious about the anticipation.”

Another pause. A twist. A collision of limbs below that made the audience shift as one. Velyra didn’t flinch.

Her gaze briefly lifted across the crowd. It brushed past aides and officers, lingering for a beat as her eyes found the Corellian general in his dress blues. She didn’t smirk—too direct. But the glint behind her glasses spoke volumes.

She knew the look. She’d seen it on a hundred planets.
And she'd worn it herself, once.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, mostly to her wine,
“The fighters have my full attention today.”

And they did.

Every flex, every feint, every layered glance between Ashley and Aiden was a story unfolding beneath the surface—
And Velyra Vonn was a patient, hungry reader.

Ashley Nevermore Aiden Rennek Dracken Pryce​

 

[Ashley Nevermore]

Objective I
Tag: Aiden Rennek​

Ladies?

That got her to crack a smirk, as she considered her first move. The first few moments, as was with a lot of fights, was sizing each other up. She knew Aiden, rather intimately at this point, but they had never fought.

As so, Ashley went for the old standby.

A leaping knee strike. Finish the fight quickly if she could.

She was no lady. She was a woman, and a soldier.