Private The Adiik of Mal and the claim of Ahliad

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OBJECTIVE
The Search of Kusla


The cockpit was cold, the hum of the ship’s systems the only sound filling the enclosed space.
Murtog sat at the helm,
his hands steady on the controls,
while Kallina worked beside him,
adjusting their hyperspace calculations with practiced precision.
His armor lay to the side,
mostly removed its surface marred by scorch marks, blaster burns, and, surprisingly, a dent.

Beskar was not known to dent.

He wore only the simple garments beneath his armor ragged, worn, and stained with battle.
A dark brown turban was wrapped around his head,
but beneath its folds,
dried blood clung to his skin.
He had been wounded recently, and not lightly.


“Well,”
he muttered, exhaling slowly,
“I’m glad I called you.
Doubt I’d have made it out otherwise.”



His gaze flickered toward his armor,
his mind drifting into memory.
Even at his age, Murtog was sharp
quick to draw, quick to counter,
a veteran of countless fights.
But tonight, something had been different.

One moment, his enemy was there.
The next, she was in front of him
faster than thought,
faster than sight.


If she had used a jetpack,
it would have made sense.
But Veela of the Malsonike clan had not.
Her strength was beyond human limits,
beyond Mandalorian expectation.
If Kallina hadn’t been there,
he would be dead.
A simple truth.


And now,
he understood why the legends of the Malsonike were so ruthless.
Two Mandalorian clan leaders
warriors among warriors
had barely survived against a mere foot soldier of their ranks.
That was a terrifying realization.
Yet, despite the haze of battle,
despite the pain,
one thing was clear
they had won.
A deal had been made,
and that was what Murtog had fought for.


Now,
they had to go to N’orlannia.
There, they would find Jahelli’s brother
Kusla, clan leader of the Malsonike.
Kusla the Mad.
Murtog had heard stories,
tales of blood and carnage.
After tonight,
he was more inclined to believe them.

But N’orlannia…
that was a different kind of place.
A sanctuary of sorts.
A retreat for Mandalorians after long hunts,
where warriors could breathe,
drink, and forget
For a while.
He would know.
He adjusted the ship’s course slightly,
his fingers drumming against the console.


“Well,
in a few hours,
we should reach the N’orlannia system,”

he said, not looking away from the viewport.
His grip tightened slightly on the controls, his voice lowering.

“Are we really doing this just the two of us?”


Murtog leaned back, exhaling through his nose.


“This could get rough.
Or not. N’orlannia is… strange.
A lot of fun to be had,
but rules are rules there.”


He smirked,
shaking his head slightly.

“Rules,”
he muttered.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.”

@Kallina Rives
 
OBJECTIVE
The Witches of N'orlannia and their bargain




The night was young, but its people were hungry.
From every corner,
the sound of jizz music drifted through the air
spiraling melodies from street musicians,
the pulse of open air venues, and the muffled rhythm of private gatherings behind closed doors.
The city was alive with sound, each note adding to the chaotic harmony of N’orlannia’s capital.

Painters lined the streets, their easels standing like sentinels of expression.
Some sought to sell their work,
calling out to passing admirers,
while others simply lost themselves in the rhythm of creation,
driven not by commerce but by inspiration.
They painted beneath the open sky,
letting the city itself be their muse
its energy,
its breath,
its very soul flowing onto canvas.
No two strokes were the same,
just as no two notes of the music were alike.
Everything within the city felt unique,
an endless tide of individuality and artistic frenzy.

And yet, Kusla wondered did it look this way from the outside?
Or was it merely an illusion,
a façade crafted by the night and its revelers?

The capital of N’orlannia was teeming with life.
Common folk filled the streets,
moving seamlessly among Mandalorians clad in beskar,
the warriors now woven into the fabric of the city.
They laughed, drank,
and walked with an ease that unsettled him.
It was not how he remembered it.

The last time Kusla had stood here,
Mandalorians kept to themselves,
their presence an island within the capital.
But now, they had become something else
more than guests,
more than warriors.
They were simply part of the grand idea that was N’orlannia.

He sat quietly in a shadowed corner,
lost in thought,
letting the night wash over him.
His presence was imposing even in stillness,
clad in full beskar armor dark as the void,
with tints of gold catching the flickering city lights.
The polished edges gleamed subtly beneath his heavy cloak,
a silent testament to both status and survival.

His gaze lingered on a middle aged man hunched over an easel,
the artist’s brush moving with slow, deliberate strokes.
Kusla studied the painting,
trying to decipher the image,
but all he could see was a battlefield of color
chaotic yet purposeful.

A portrait, perhaps.
Of what, he could only guess.
Maybe the man was painting his demons.
Maybe,
Kusla thought,
WE all are after all.




As a child, he had always loved the artsespecially anything that involved paint.
But…
Alas.
Mal,
his father, had forbidden such weaknesses.
That was long ago.

Kusla exhaled,
his thoughts interrupted as he noticed a young blonde woman nearby.
She was human, dressed in simple,
common clothing,
yet there was something striking about her.
Her eyes were piercing, filled with curiosity,
and her cloak draped long behind her
like the wonder lingering in her gaze.

She cast him a quick glance before returning her attention to the painting before them.

The piece was taking shape,
its form emerging with every stroke of the artist’s brush.
A pair of eyes slowly surfaced within the chaos of color,
framed by the miniature outline of a skull.
The vibrant hues clashed and danced,
bleeding into one another with an almost hypnotic intensity.

Nearby, the band playing close to the painter began to pick up the pace,
their melody growing faster,
voices rising in rhythmic unison.
As if bound to the music itself,
the artist’s strokes quickened,
his brush dragging bold streaks of crimson across the canvas.
The reds deepened,
growing more dominant,
more demanding.

“Amazing, isn’t he?”

The woman’s voice cut through the moment,
breaking the silence between them.
Kusla turned his head slightly,
taking a closer look at her.
A name tag pinned to her chest caught his eye.

Cammille.

“Cammille… Isn’t that a Republican name?” he asked.

She smiled, a small amused curve of her lips.

“Old grandma name,” she replied. “Call me Cami.”

“Do you paint?”

“No…”
She sighed, a soft breath carrying a weight he couldn’t quite place.
“But I admire.”
As she spoke, her gaze lingered on the painting, as if the colors themselves were speaking to her.

Kusla smirked but kept his focus on the artist.

“Every artist has a story, you know,”
she continued.

He tilted his head slightly.
“And what do you suppose his story is?”

Cami inhaled deeply,
studying the piece with her arms crossed,
as if deciphering its hidden language.

“Ahhmm… He is angry,”
she murmured.
“Dark.
He doesn’t know what to do with it.
He wishes he could control his demons
instead of having his demons control him.”

Kusla wasn’t sure if he was more captivated
by the painter
or by her words.
His admiration his quiet shock was evident.
Then she chuckled, breaking the tension with a playful shrug.

“Or maybe he’s just had too much to drink tonight.”
She laughed lightly before shaking her head.
“Sorry. Over zealous psych xenologist major.”

Kusla turned to her then,
his voice lower now,
more grounded.

“No,” he said, his Mandalorian accent thick, weighted.
“I think you were right the first time.”


They both looked back at the artist,
the silence between them now different more reflective, almost charged.
Then, as Cami remained lost in thought,
Kusla took a step back.
And in the space of a single breath he was gone.
Using the gifts of his demons,
he slipped into the shadows, vanishing without a trace.
For her, one second he had been there.
The next, he had simply ceased to exist.
She turned slightly, speaking into the air where he had just stood.

“So… do you paint?”
It was only then that she realized he had left.
Her eyes darted to the crowd, scanning for any sign of him, but there was none.
No trace, no lingering presence.
Just a void where he had been.
Out of nowhere.
Gone.
 
OBJECTIVE
The Witches of N'orlannia and their bargain


Kusla moved like a shadow, slipping unnoticed through the throngs of revelers.
The chaos of Bourbon Street played like a fevered symphony laughter,
drunken shouts, the distant wail of a jizz horn.
It was amusing to see how the planet had evolved,
how time reshaped its bones, but its indulgences were not his concern.
Beyond the neon glow and the scent of spiced Corellian rum, he walked.
Past the debauchery, into the stillness.

The Luminous Quarter.

The witches of N’orlannia had first settled here during the Great Migration,
carving their mark into the stone, weaving their will into the air itself.
A testament to their heritage.
A shrine to their customs.
And an easy way to con the ignorant.

Shops lined the alleys like watchful sentinels,
their windows filled with charms, tinctures of unknown power, and whispered promises of fortune telling.
But beneath the layers of charlatanry,
the true practitioners lingered hiding in plain sight.
Kusla always relished that irony.

He walked slowly, stretching his senses, reaching
beyond sight and sound to sift through the currents of the force.
Which of these so called mystics held real power? Which ones were merely playing at it?

All the while, he reread the cryptic message that had led him here.


Kusla the Mad
Once King of N’orlannia
The Adiik of Mal on the 7th to come.
Come back and claim it.
Come back, and the Ancestors will stand with you.
Claim.



Truths woven with falsehoods.


Yes, he was Kusla the Mad.
Yes, he had once been king.
Yes, he was the child of Mal.

But there had never been a seventh sibling.
Were they mistaken? Was this prophecy? Or was it bait?

Claim what? His heritage? His throne?
He had never needed titles he was the son of Mal, and he wore that truth like armor in every battle.

To survive Mal was testament enough.
To be his son was proof that his will was and is unbroken.

Then he saw her.

A middle aged woman, tucked away in a lonely corner where the fortune tellers gathered.
Her stand was simple, unremarkable but her mark was there.
Faint, subtle. She was trying to mask her presence, yet he could feel it.
She wasn’t merely hiding.
She was suppressing.

Curious. He pondered
As he approached, she moved quickly,
packing her things with nervous hands.
But it was too late.
He was already seated, his movements slow, deliberate.
His helmet rested at his belt,
his talismans trophies of past hunts hung proudly across the pitch-dark weave of his beskar.
The dim light caught the blond tint in his hair, but it was his eyes that held her. Cold. Piercing.
He smiled.

“Evening. Time for one more?”

His tone was casual his accent strong filled with playfulness,
his posture open legs spread, arm draped lazily over the table,
as though he had reunited with an old friend.

“I have nothing to say to you.”
Her voice was sharp, her face lined with unease.

“Well, that isn’t very aimable, now is it?”
He gestured with his hand as he spoke,
his movements fluid, coaxing.
“You don’t even know me.”

Her gaze hardened.
“I know what you are.
You are a Mandalorian.
You are of Mal.
You are the Mad.”​

The words washed over him like a hymn,
and he savored them.
Let them feed his ego.

“I’m a lot of things,”

he mused, lips curling into a smirk.
“But those are stories for another time.”

The warmth in his voice cooled.
The pleasantries had run their course.
His head tilted slightly,
his fingers tapping against the wooden table.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

His hand lifted in a slow, deliberate motion.
“I’m looking for someone.
A witch…”

He let the word hang, savoring its weight.
“You might be able to help me find her.
Neja Enna Devarow.



The moment he spoke the name, her breath hitched.
He saw it felt it.
Though her skin was dark,
her blood fluctuated,
her body betraying her fear.
She paled, even if only for a second.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know her.”​

Kusla leaned forward.
The shift was subtle, but the weight in the air changed.
His shoulders squared,
his body tensed not in anger,
but in something far more dangerous.
A silent threat.

His smile faded, replaced with something colder.

“Well, now… that’s a fib, isn’t it?”
His hand extended, slow and deliberate,
fingers curling gently around hers.
His touch was light,
almost intimate.
And he smiled.

“I know you’re a true witch among this sea of pretenders. So, let’s not waste each other’s time.”
His grip tightened ever so slightly.
“I have quite the temper.”

She yanked her hand away, exhaling sharply.

“Witches don’t talk out of school in the Quarter,”
she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The Mandalorian won’t allow it.
Those are the rules.
I don’t break Merclas rules”​

Kusla’s breath caught in his throat.
That name.
That name.

Mercla.

How many years had it been since he last heard it?
Since he last spoke it?
The dead weren’t meant to be spoken of so easily.
His voice, when it finally came, was softer.

“Where do you suppose I’d find Mercla?”

She hesitated.
Then, finally

“The Abattoir.”
A pause.
“…May I go now?”​

Kusla exhaled through his nose,
his smirk returning, but there was no warmth behind it.

“Yes, love. You’ve been most helpful.”


He reached into his belt, dropping a generous handful of credits into her tip jar before rising.
Then, without another word, he turned disappearing into the mist, his path set.

Towards the Abattoir.
 
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