. Echoes in the Silver Vein

 Vesper The Ebony Jedi

The starliner Silver Vein drifted through the Outer Rim like a jeweled serpent—quiet, decadent, and full of people who lied for a living. Vesper moved among them with the same effortless grace she once carried into battle, though tonight she wore no armor, no hooded mantle, no myth. Only a gambler’s gown of obsidian silk and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Her true weapon rested at her hip, disguised as an ornamented dueling piece.

The silver‑black blade hummed faintly beneath its sheath, its resonance tuned to a frequency no ordinary ear could hear. Only one creature aboard feared that sound—the shapeshifter wearing the face of the Chancellor’s envoy.

The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and false identities. Every suspect laughed too loudly, drank too slowly, or watched her with the wrong kind of interest. The shifter could be any of them. Or all of them. Its species didn’t just mimic faces; it mimicked micro‑expressions, pulse rhythms, even the subtle heat signatures of emotion.

Vesper didn’t need to fight it. She needed to expose it.

She stepped into the center of the room, letting the music swell around her. The gamblers paused. The diplomats paused. Even the servers paused. Vesper’s presence had that effect—quiet, coiled, inevitable.

She touched the hilt.

The blade answered.

A soft, rising tone rippled through the air—like a tuning fork struck against the bones of the universe. The chandeliers flickered. Glasses vibrated. A few guests clutched their temples, confused but unharmed.

Only one figure reacted with fear.

A man near the bar stiffened, his skin rippling like water disturbed by a stone. His borrowed face flickered—envoy, stranger, envoy, stranger—before stabilizing again.

Vesper’s eyes locked onto him.

The shifter bolted.

The room erupted into chaos, but Vesper moved through it like a shadow given purpose. Her blade ignited in a streak of silver‑black light, not to cut, but to reveal. Every sweep of the weapon sent out another pulse, peeling away the shifter’s camouflage layer by layer.

It stumbled, half‑formed, half‑human, half‑something else entirely.

“Enough,” Vesper said, her voice low, steady, and absolute.

The creature hissed, its true face finally exposed—a lattice of shifting geometry, like a living fractal trying to remember what shape it wanted to be.

“You can’t hide from this frequency,” she continued. “And you can’t hide from me.”

The shifter froze, trembling under the blade’s harmonic glow.

The guests stared, horrified and awestruck.

Vesper exhaled, letting the tension bleed from her shoulders. She didn’t strike. She didn’t need to. The truth was the victory.

And in the echoing silence of the Silver Vein, her blade dimmed—its work done.

Ghost of the Shadow Conclave

 

Adventures of the Ebony Jedi

Umbara breathed in colors no sane world should possess.

Violet mist coiled between blackened tree-trunks, their bioluminescent veins pulsing like exposed nerves. The jungle floor shimmered with spores that glowed and dimmed in slow, arrhythmic patterns—light that deceived depth and distance. Even sound behaved strangely here, footsteps arriving before the echo of their cause.

Vesper moved anyway.

The Force was quiet.

Not distant. Not clouded.
Gone.

The absence pressed against her senses like a vacuum, a hollowness where instinct should have whispered warnings. Any other Jedi would have been half-blind in this place. Some would already be dead.

Vesper slowed her breathing and let something older rise to the surface.

Echani discipline.

She crouched, fingers brushing the damp soil. The ground was disturbed—subtle, almost reverent. Whoever passed through here hadn’t fled in panic. No erratic stride. No dragged heel.

Professionals, she thought. Or devotees.

A flicker of movement rippled through the fog.

Vesper didn’t reach for her lightsaber.

Instead, she watched.

The silhouette paused for half a heartbeat too long. Weight shifted to the rear foot. Shoulders angled—not toward her, but away, preparing to pivot and strike from a blind arc.

Fear would have rushed the blade.

Training read the body.

Vesper moved before the attack began.

She rolled low as a stun-bolt hissed through where her head had been, the energy crackling against a tree that screamed when it was struck. She came up inside the attacker’s reach, elbow snapping into the joint beneath the clavicle. The researcher gasped—not in pain, but surprise.

“Jedi—” he started.

She took his balance instead of his life.

The man collapsed unconscious, his armor humming faintly. Embedded at his chest was the artifact: obsidian-black, angular, drinking in the jungle’s light. The Force recoiled from it like a wound.

So this was the Shadow Conclave’s ghost.

Vesper straightened, every muscle alive, every sense sharpened without mystical aid. She felt exposed—honest—in a way the Force rarely allowed.

Somewhere deeper in the jungle, something shifted.

More footsteps. Different cadence. Heavier confidence.

She smiled, just slightly.

“Fine,” she murmured to the darkness.
“We do this the old way.”

The jungle pulsed violet around her as Vesper faded into motion, hunting by breath, posture, and the ancient language of combat—no Force required.

The Ghost of the Shadow Conclave

 Full Adventure of the Ebony Jedi

The Ghost of the Shadow Conclave

Umbara did not welcome visitors.

The jungle breathed in shades of violet and indigo, its flora pulsing with bioluminescent rhythms that felt less like light and more like observation. Massive fungal growths rose like cathedral spires, their caps dripping luminous spores that floated downward in slow, hypnotic spirals. The air was heavy—humid, metallic, and alive with distant, clicking sounds that never repeated in quite the same way.

Vesper stood at the jungle’s edge, cloak drawn tight, and felt nothing.

No current of the Force.
No echo of life.
No warning whisper curling at the edge of her thoughts.

The Jedi Council had called it a “localized nullification effect.” A sterile phrase for something profoundly wrong.

Any Jedi without preparation would already be compromised—dependent on instincts that no longer answered when called. That was why the Council had sent her.

Umbara was her ancestral world, or close enough. Its strange physics, its predatory stillness, the way it punished hesitation—these were not foreign to her. And long before she had ever touched the Force, Vesper had learned another way to see.

She stepped into the jungle.

The ground beneath her boots shifted subtly, reacting to pressure like a living thing. Every step was deliberate. She controlled her breathing, slow and even, letting Echani discipline override panic. The Echani taught that combat began before violence—within posture, intention, micro-movements the untrained eye dismissed as meaningless.

The Force had abandoned her.

Her body had not.

The Shadow Conclave’s researchers had been careful. Too careful.

There were no obvious encampments, no power signatures, no careless footprints. Instead, there were absences—paths where Umbara’s aggressive flora had been subtly pushed aside, spores burned away not by blaster fire but by controlled heat. People had passed through here who respected the jungle’s hostility.

A sound reached her ears. Soft. Organic.

Breathing.

Vesper froze.

She lowered herself slowly, eyes scanning the mist. The figure ahead was humanoid, armored in matte-black gear that absorbed Umbara’s glow instead of reflecting it. A weapon hung low at their side, finger resting near—but not on—the trigger.

The stance was wrong for a scout.

Too balanced. Too ready.

He’s waiting for me to reveal myself, she thought.

She didn’t.

Instead, she shifted her weight, pressing down deliberately on a patch of spore-growth to her left. The faint hiss echoed.

The figure turned—shoulders leading before the head, a common mistake.

Vesper moved.

She crossed the distance in a blur, knocking the blaster aside with her forearm and driving a knee into the attacker’s center of mass. Armor cracked. Air left lungs in a sharp, surprised exhale. She twisted, using his momentum to throw him into a tree whose bark flexed like muscle.

He never saw the strike that rendered him unconscious.

Vesper crouched beside the fallen man and found the artifact.

It was embedded into his armor like a parasite—obsidian-black, faceted, angular in ways that offended geometry. Light bent around it strangely, as if refusing to touch it. When she focused inward out of habit, the Force recoiled—not blocked, but repelled.

This thing didn’t hide them.

It erased them.

A voice spoke from the fog.

“Impressive.”

Vesper stood slowly, hands open, posture relaxed but coiled. Her eyes tracked the speaker before he fully emerged—an older man, Umbaran by the shape of his face and the faint bioluminescent patterns beneath his skin. He wore no armor. No visible weapon.

That worried her more than either.

“You’re the Jedi they sent,” he said. “The one who doesn’t panic when the Force goes quiet.”

“I panic,” Vesper replied calmly. “I just don’t let it show.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Then you’ll appreciate honesty.”

With a gesture, figures emerged from the jungle—half a dozen researchers, each bearing the same artifact. They moved like soldiers, not scholars.

“We were tired of being prey,” the Umbaran said. “Tired of Force-users deciding the fate of the galaxy because they can feel things others cannot.”

“So you built a weapon,” Vesper said.

“No. A correction.”

They attacked.

Blaster fire lanced through the violet mist. Vesper dove, rolled, felt the heat pass her skin without relying on precognition. She moved by observation—reading hips, shoulders, breathing rhythms. Every shot had a beginning. Every strike betrayed itself.

She disarmed one attacker with a twist of the wrist, used his body as cover, then sent him crashing into another. She ignited her lightsaber briefly—not as a crutch, but as a tool—deflecting only what she saw, not what she sensed.

The Umbaran leader watched her fight, fascination growing.

“You’re different,” he said.

“Yes,” Vesper answered, breath steady despite the chaos. “I am.”

She closed the distance and struck—not with the Force, but with precision—disabling his artifact with a calculated blow. The Force rushed back like a held breath released.

The man staggered, eyes wide.

“You feel it now,” Vesper said softly.

He nodded, almost reverent.

The Conclave fell that night. Not eradicated—ended. Their research confiscated. Their warning delivered.

As dawn crept across Umbara’s unnatural horizon, Vesper stood alone in the jungle, the Force flowing once more.

She welcomed it—but did not cling to it.

Umbara had reminded her of something important.

The Force was a gift.

But skill—
skill was earned.

---

Orcs Disciplining Elves

 In the twilight realm of Xylos, where ancient oaks clawed at the twilight sky, a simmering rage burned in the heart of Gorkul, the Orc chieftain. His emerald eyes, usually twinkling with mirth, were narrowed slits. The Binoids, small, furry humanoids with oversized ears, were gentle creatures, prized for their craftsmanship and knack for weaving dreams into tapestries. For generations, they had lived in harmony with the Orcs of the Mosshorn clan, trading trinkets and laughter.

But that harmony had been shattered. The Elves of the Nightshade Glade, ever prideful and expansionist, had raided a Binoid village, capturing its inhabitants and enslaving them for their dreamweaving abilities. Gorkul, a creature of immense strength and unwavering loyalty, could not tolerate such cruelty. He roared, a sound that echoed through the moss-draped valleys, bringing the Mosshorn clan together.

Young warriors, their tusks glinting with war paint, pounded their chests. Borag, Gorkul's advisor, a wizened Orc with a mane of braids, stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The Elves are swift and cunning," he rumbled. "We need a plan, not just brute force."

Thus began the Orcs' meticulous campaign. Scouts, cloaked in shadow and leaves, infiltrated the Nightshade Glade, learning the Elves' routines and mapping the hidden prison where the Binoids were kept. Gorkul, channeling his rage into strategy, devised a daring raid.

On a night veiled by an inky blackness, the Orcs moved. Gorkul, wielding his massive greataxe, "Fangbreaker," led the charge. The Elven guards, caught off guard by the sudden Orc onslaught, were no match for their ferocity. Steel clashed against steel, Orcish war cries drowned out Elven shrieks. Borag, ever the pragmatist, used his knowledge of the Glade's secret passages to free the Binoids from their prison.

The Binoids, blinking in the sudden light, were overwhelmed with relief. Tears welled up in their large eyes as they embraced their Orc saviors. But the fight wasn't over. The Elven elite, alerted by the commotion, descended upon them. Gorkul, ever the Orcish champion, roared a challenge, his voice booming through the Glade. The Elven leader, a haughty figure clad in moonstone armor, arrogantly accepted.

Their duel was a sight to behold. Gorkul, a whirlwind of green fury, swung Fangbreaker with earth-shattering force. The Elf danced around the blows, his rapier a blur of silver light. But Gorkul, fueled by his righteous fury, landed a bone-crushing blow, sending the Elf sprawling.

With their leader defeated, the remaining Elves scattered. The Orcs, battered but victorious, helped the Binoids return to their village. The celebration that followed was legendary, filled with laughter, song, and the sweet aroma of dream-woven pastries, a Binoid delicacy.

News of the Orcs' bravery spread throughout Xylos. The Elves, humbled and shamed, retreated to their Glade. The Binoids, forever grateful, vowed to weave tales of Orcish heroism into their dream tapestries, ensuring that the legend of Gorkul and the Mosshorn clan would forever be etched in Xylos' memory.

Binoid Liberation Continues

  Liberation  of the Binoid's

In the twilight realm of Xylos, where ancient boughs scraped the starry expanse, a simmering rage burned within the Orcish strongholds. The Elves, with their typical arrogance, had crossed a line far too deep. For generations, the Binoids, a peaceful race resembling luminous beetles, had toiled in the Elven crystal mines, their bioluminescence a mockery of their forced labor. But recently, the Elves had captured a new batch of Binoids, not for mere mining, but for a far more sinister purpose.

Druaga, the Orc chieftain, a mountain of emerald green muscle with tusks that gnashed like war hammers, pounded his fist on the rough-hewn oak table. "Enough! We tolerated their arrogance, their smug superiority, but this? This enslavement of the innocent? We Orcs may be brutes, but there is honor in our brutality!"

A chorus of roars echoed through the longhouse. The Orcs, though stereotyped as savage, held a deep respect for nature and a grudging admiration for the resilience of the Binoids. Druaga slammed his fist down again, this time a crude map sprawling across the table. "We hit them where it hurts. We strike at the Quel'Delaryn mines, free the Binoids, and cripple their crystal production!"

Elara, a young Orc warrior with fiery red braids and a face painted with war stripes, slammed her axe on the table. "But Quel'Delaryn is heavily fortified! We'll walk into a slaughter!"

Druaga snorted. "Elves rely on magic and finesse, not on raw strength. We will crush them with an avalanche of force. We will fight with the fury of Groth!" Groth, the Orcish god of war, was a fearsome deity, a brute who embodied their untamed strength.

The Orcs spent the next few days in a frenzy of preparation. They honed their axes and greataxes, roaring war chants that echoed through the forests. Druaga, with Elara by his side, devised a daring plan. They would use the cover of night to infiltrate the Quel'Delaryn mines through a network of forgotten tunnels, known only to the Orcs.

The night of the raid arrived, cloaked in an inky darkness punctured only by the distant twinkle of stars. The Orcs, a tide of green and brown, surged through the tunnels, their guttural battle cries muffled by the damp earth. They emerged into the mines, a sight to behold for the unsuspecting Elven guards.

The ensuing battle was a whirlwind of steel and fury. The Orcs, fueled by righteous anger, hacked and cleaved their way through the Elven ranks. Elara, a whirlwind of motion, danced through the fray, her axe a crimson blur. Druaga, an unstoppable force, smashed through the Elven lines, his roars shaking the very foundations of the mines.

The Elves, caught off guard and overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the Orcs, faltered. The tide of battle turned. One by one, the Elven guards fell, their once proud faces contorted in surprise and fear. Finally, the remaining Elves surrendered, whimpering pleas for mercy ignored by the vengeful Orcs.

With the Elven guards subdued, the Orcs hurried to free the Binoids. The luminous creatures, huddled in the darkness, blinked in confusion at their liberators. Druaga knelt before them, his massive frame dwarfing the tiny creatures. In the Orcish tongue, he rumbled a promise of safe passage.

The escape from the mines was fraught with tension, but the Orcs, invigorated by their victory, fought their way back through the tunnels. As dawn painted the sky, they emerged back into the wilds, a band of triumphant warriors leading a trail of glowing Binoids.

News of the Orcish raid spread like wildfire throughout Xylos. The Elves, humiliated and crippled, retreated behind their high walls. The Binoids, free at last, danced a joyous light show in the Orcish camp, their bioluminescence a testament to their gratitude. Druaga, his chest puffed with pride, surveyed the scene. Perhaps, he thought, there was a chance for a new kind of relationship between Orcs and the other races of Xylos. A relationship built not on fear, but on grudging respect and a shared appreciation for the freedom of all living things.

Aurelius, Warrior Jedi Angel

 On the celestial plane of Elysium, where golden clouds drifted and hymns of devotion echoed, resided Aurelius, a warrior angel unlike any other. His wings, a cascade of purest white, spread wide, and his gentle eyes held the unwavering strength of a Jedi Knight. Unlike his brethren who served as guardians and guides, wielded not just a spear and shield, but a lightsaber, its cobalt blade humming with an inner light.

A tremor shook the very foundations of Elysium, disrupting the celestial harmony. Reports flooded in of distant planets succumbing to a sinister influence, their vibrant life force drained, leaving behind barren wastelands. The Council of Elders, wise and ethereal beings, summoned Aurelius.

"A malevolent entity, known as the Void Weaver, seeks to consume the life force of the cosmos," declared the Eldest, his voice an echo of cosmic wisdom. "His tendrils of darkness have already begun to encroach upon Elysium."

nodded grimly, accepting the task. His journey would lead him to the desolate region of the Blighted Nebula, a swirling vortex of cosmic dust and the rumored lair of the Void Weaver. With a resolute prayer, he mounted his celestial steed, a majestic gryphon with feathers the color of twilight, and plunged into the unknown.

His journey tested him. He encountered once-thriving planets, now lifeless husks, testaments to the Void Weaver's destructive path. He faced creatures twisted by darkness, driven mad by the absence of life force. Yet, persevered, his lightsaber a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape. He used his Jedi training, deflecting attacks with grace and deflecting blasts of corrupted energy with his telekinetic abilities.

After weeks of perilous travel, he reached the heart of the Blighted Nebula, a colossal black hole pulsating with an unnatural darkness. The Void Weaver, a towering wraith-like entity, emerged from the swirling shadows. Its form, a twisted parody of celestial beauty, radiated an almost tangible sense of despair.

A fierce duel commenced. Aurelius, fueled by the collective life force he protected, danced a deadly ballet with the Void Weaver. The cobalt blade met the tendrils of darkness, each clash sending ripples through the very fabric of space. But fought not just with his lightsaber, but with the unwavering conviction of a Jedi Knight – a champion of life itself.

As the fight raged, sensed a flicker of pain within the Void Weaver's darkness. Using the Force, he probed deeper, uncovering a forgotten past – a celestial being once tasked with nurturing life, corrupted by an ancient tragedy.

With profound empathy, lowered his lightsaber. "Your path doesn't have to be one of destruction," he said, his voice calm and powerful. "Even in the darkest depths, there is still light. Let it guide you."

The Void Weaver faltered, its form shimmering with conflicting emotions. Finally, with a heart-wrenching cry, it yielded, the darkness receding like a tide.

Guided byAurelius, the Void Weaver embarked on a path of redemption. Together, they journeyed to the planets drained of life force, offering their combined energy to reignite the spark of life. Aurelius, the Jedi Knight angel, not only defeated an enemy but helped a once-lost soul find its way back to the light.

News of his feats echoed through the cosmos, a testament to the power of courage, compassion, and the unshakeable spirit of a Jedi Knight. From then on, became a symbol of hope, reminding everyone, even among the celestial beings, that even in the face of overwhelming darkness, the light will always find a way.

A TALE OF 3 ATHLETES

 A TALE OF 3 ATHLETES It’s a shame Kyrie Irving, a Black man who shared the link to a video, has received more consequences, condemnation and news coverage, than 2 white men combined: Brett Favre stole $5M from poor Black children in MS Dana White pimp slapped his wife in public

First evil Dana White

As we've always known the white media ignores and categorically refuses to run negative stories about people based on race. And now a reporter has admitted that at least over at ESPN that the reason they since the Dana White domestic abuse scandal broke, they've been told not to write anything "inflammatory" about Dana White.

ESPN has no problem reporting on UFC fighters when they make the news. Jon Jones comes to mind. Everything he was accused of was reported 24/7. This is protection by complexion.

If #ChrisBrown, #BobbyBrown or #AntoinioBrown did what #DanaWhite did, the media wouldn’t stop talking about it!! What can Brown do for you?………Be White!! #TeamDl

Well group there the old American double standard. Of those who know me know that  I've  been throwing rocks the American double standard for a long time. And will continue to do so.

My own personal reply:  If anyone tells me White Privilege doesn't exist after witnessing how @stephenasmith and First Take is treating Dana White giving him a pass, an embarrassment to humanity... not after how @espn  went after Kyire, ime udoka, Ray Rice, and others. That would be magical thinking on my part

Second is Brett Favre. The headline from the "National Urban League" The Urban league did such good job I'll quote their article.

Tepid Public Reaction to Brett Favre's Plundering of Welfare Funds Reveals Racial Double Standard For Athletes' Behavior

Scandal Shines a Harsh Light on Mississippi’s Mistreatment of its Poorest Families

‘’Apparently the nations’ love affair with a White celebrity like Favre is enough to ignore an ugly scandal where money was stolen to build a volleyball stadium. When people try to tell me that race does not play a big role in America, I can now include this scandal from my home state to prove them wrong. Perhaps if Favre is actually charged this may receive more attention. The fact that the known information up to now has not been enough to get the talking heads at ESPN, the National Football League offices, and the NFL Hall of Fame to muster a statement about Favre says a lot.’’ – Milwaukee Independent Columnist Reggie Jackson

Last year, when Brett Favre partially repaid the state of Mississippi for $1.1 million in welfare funds he was paid for appearances and speeches at events he did not attend, he posted on Facebook, “I would never knowingly take funds meant to help our neighbors in need.”

Text messages filed in court documents revealed Favre was concerned the public would learn the source of the funds. “If you were to pay me is there anyway the media can find out where it came from and how much?” 

Brett Favre sought Gov. Tate Reeves’ help to get state funds to pay for volleyball facilities that the former NFL star had vowed to personally fund at his alma mater, according to text messages the Mississippi Free Press obtained through a public-records request to the governor’s office.

In 2017, before Reeves was governor, the Mississippi Department of Human Services directed $5 million in Temporary Assistance For Needy Families welfare funds to build a volleyball facility at the University of Southern Mississippi, Favre’s alma mater. His daughter, Breleigh Favre, was starting a volleyball career at USM that year. But even after getting help from MDHS officials, the celebrity athlete still owed the university at least $1.6 million for the project upon its completion in January 2020.

On Jan. 26, 2020, Favre sent a text to former Gov. Phil Bryant, who had just left the job weeks earlier, asking if he could “think of anyone or any other way of getting funding for the remainder of Vball.” Bryant revealed those text messages in September court filings as part of a civil case over misspent TANF funds.

In the messages, Bryant told Favre that the state auditor was still conducting an investigation “into spending at the Department of Human Services” and that he may need to “visit” Lt. Gov. Delbert Hosemann and Reeves, then the new governor, to seek funding from the Legislature.

“I just sent Tate a message,” Favre told him.

The text messages that Gov. Reeves’ office sent in response to this publication’s public-records request for texts between him and Favre, however, do not include any texts on Jan. 26, 2020; the first one in the batch of documents is dated Jan. 27, 2020, at 11:49 a.m. The Mississippi Free Press asked the governor’s office about the discrepancy on Wednesday, but has not received a response.

“Hey bud we set to talk today at 2 Todd said,” Favre wrote to Reeves in the first Jan. 27 text. (It is not clear who “Todd” is). Reeves replied with a thumbs-up emoji. At 2:01 p.m., Favre asked Reeves if he was free to talk. “Yes sir,” Reeves replied.

Another text from Favre to Reeves later that afternoon makes it clear that the two discussed the volleyball facility during their phone call.

Favre texted to Nancy New, executive director of a nonprofit established to distribute millions of dollars from Temporary Assistance to Needy Families meant to assist the state’s poorest residents.

Favre first met in July of 2017 with New and Mississippi Department of Human Services director John Davis to request funds for a volleyball facility at his alma mater, the University of Southern Mississippi, where his daughter played volleyball. In addition to the $1.1 million paid to Favre, New’s nonprofit sent a total of $5 million directly to the university. Favre also worked to secure $2.1 million through the nonprofit for a biotech start-up in which he is an investor.

It’s difficult not to compare the public’s reaction to Favre’s misdeeds with the media backlash against Black athletes and coaches – not only Colin Kaepernick, who lost his career for kneeling during the National Anthem to protest police brutality and racial injustice, -- but also Michael Vick, who served federal prison time for his involvement in a dog fighting ring, Deshaun Watson, who was suspended for 11 games and fined $5 million for accusations of sexual misconduct, and Celtics coach Ime Udoka, who has been suspended for the entire 2022–23 season for an improper relationship with a Celtics staff member.

The comparisons are imperfect. As sportswriter Jemele Hill points out, Favre has been retired for a dozen years while Vick, Watson, and Udoka were all active when their scandals occurred.

But Favre was an active player in 2008, when he harassed a Jets sideline reporter with lewd text messages, including a photo of his genitalia, and voicemails.  Favre was fined $50,000 for not cooperating with the NFL’s investigation and didn’t miss a single game.