DESIDERO: TALES FROM THE MYSTIC REALM: TALES FROM THE MYSTIC REALM

By D.A. Moto

They called the monsters 'Chagrin.' 

The callous arrogance of a secret group named G.U.I.S.T birthed portals that bled purple. From these wounds in the world, the abominations poure

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franklin Publishers
• Release date: Jun 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798893242423

Book preview

DESIDERO

TALES FROM THE MYSTIC REALM

BY: D.A.MOTO

Acknowledgments

To Nicholas Gauker, without whom my

incoherent ramblings would have remained just that.

To Rachel Helms, whose Inquisitive mind helped shape many

of the beloved characters present and yet to come into who they are now

And to Robby, Tyshawn, Eric and Zack, who helped

craft the game that inspired the story, Thank you for the memories.

And to the many strangers who suffered at the countless babblings of a big-

mouthed dreamer who couldn’t stop thinking about how to make his story.

Finally, thank you to my readers,

without you, none of this would be possible.

summary

Desidero is a gripping and thought-provoking exploration of the human condition, exploring the boundaries of science, spirituality, and the relationship between man and self, exploring and teaching the human condition through a larger-than-life cast of characters, some human, some not so-human but all a lesson in their own right.

This novel introduces readers to the compelling journeys of Zaitsev Moscavic and Sam Sunderson. Their adventures, set in a vividly imagined world where the lines between reality and fantasy blur, promise to delve deeper into themes of identity, belief, and the human spirit. As the first installment in an expansive series, it sets the stage for an epic narrative that will follow these characters through trials, transformations, and revelations, captivating readers who are eager to explore the depths and head into Desidero and many other tales from the mystic realm.

chapter  1

Twin suns blaze in their descent, orange and green twins dancing across a purple-streaked sky. A crackling duet, opposed on the horizon, they bleed a poignant blending of light over the mystic realm.

In the hush that follows their descent, the land breathes out the heat of the day while the other celestial bodies ascend over a clearing below, mirroring the fleeting rhythm of the suns.

Just beyond the clearing, monsters sleep. Resting. Waiting.

It is the time of twilight, where the world is stationary, stuck in its pause — A fleeting truce before night births its brood of malice on the land. Beasts, loyal only to hunger, ‘the Chagrin,’ stir in the distant forest, their growls, low and wet gurglings, coalescing underneath the countless rising moons above.

It is in this domain that a solitary figure squats, perched over the expansive desolation before him.

He waits here, atop the remains of humanity’s most potent war machines — Their forms, technological zeniths emblazoned with an olive branch and globe. They lay in rust, no more than still metal carcasses, serving better as walls than for war. Tanks, land-rollers, and shipping containers all meet here, all shoved together, each contributing to a crude semi-circular perimeter.

Simple and sturdy, the ugly, jagged barriers create a walled-off scrapyard for one man.

High upon the walls of scrap in a well-used perch, a man plops to a seated position, carefree legs swinging to and fro. He swigs from a bottle of brown liquid marked as vodka. Four gulps drain the bottle, and then he shakes once for good measure–The solitary steward in this cemetery of human aspiration, Zaitsev Moscavic, is never one to waste alcohol.

Determining the drink is well and empty, Zaitsev stands, staggering as he rises. The metal beneath his feet groans and then shifts. He staggers and slips, catching himself on the edge of his perch with cat-like grace. He plants a gentle scratch on his stomach as he leers downward. A softness around his belly had developed over the years without his notice. He returns to a squat and resumes searching for another drop of drink; his blushed cheeks puffed as he swishes around the last of his vodka, brewed from potatoes; the aftertaste is wretched. He gargles, breathing through his nose as he swallows, eyeing the yowling bodies below — There, far below him, piles of the Chagrin lay broken.

Dead.

Decades in the mystic realm had all but numbed him to the monsters’ strange ways. To him, this is just another night. He scans over the bodies once, twice, eyes squinting, scanning for signs of life. He has learned that in the mystic realm, death can have different outcomes. Occasionally, the more intact bodies of the dead will twist, writhe and jerk. Eventually, they come back to life — Resurrecting.

He watches as the Chagrin below performs another cycle of birth and unbirth. Pathetic things cling to bodies that should have long been abandoned. He points them out, one by one and makes a mental note, his index acting as a pen. Tonight he would ensure he left each of them with little to come back to, no options for revival.

Abomination each, they would learn their lesson. In this life or the next, they would learn. All around the scorched clearing surrounding his yard, the low, ravenous gurgles rise again from the far woods that pepper the field.

An open challenge.

The monsters, roused by half-corpses and their howls of pained hunger, call out in the night. The distant Chagrin are either emboldened or enchanted by the feral calls of the once-dead. It mattered little to Zaitsev what called them over to him as long as they came over.

Above the sound of a howling beast, hearty laugh boons — More a throaty hiss than a gleeful exclamation, the sound pierces the night.

Bold, this batch of monsters, a decent amount of bravado still resides in them. He thinks about where their bodies will fit into the piles with the rest.

As he counts from across the burned clearing, their numbers do not worry him or wane his confidence; he is aware of his own impressive gift of survival. Even the Chagrin, wild beast as they are, acknowledge him. in their own primal language. Yet, their insistence on consuming him reigns over their fear. He finds a small measure of respect for them. In a way, they are a mirror of his own resilience. A grin possesses his features. Wild and free.

He pulls a boot knife, long, deadly, and sharp, he runs the blade along the side of his rampart — Shrieking steel slides smoothly as he does, the screech, his own call back to the waiting beast.

His knife catches on a snag in the wall, creating a pause in the ritual, a moment of silence that allows memories to flow, vast and burdensome. They loom at the edge of thought, teasing him with whispers of names and places he does not recognize. He knows as well as any that the realm plays tricks on the unguarded mind.

Though normally, he finds himself immune to such throws of weakness, something about the moons brings him a deep sense of melancholy.

He frowns, an expression that had become so foreign to him that he had almost forgotten how to do it. Surrendering to the feeling washing over him for a moment, he lets buried thoughts consume him. As he does, his heart begins to race, his eyes dart, and sweat develops on his brow. Quickly, he flicks his wrist as if dispersing smoke, imagining the thoughts dissipating as he does —A dismissive gesture.

Panting heavily, the thoughts leave him, mere spectators fading before a flick of his hand. Nothing more than a test of his mettle, he passes this time like every other. Such ponderings lead him only to drowsiness and headaches, and such burdens are for another day. Tonight, he has more primal matters to attend to — He fumbles, reaching into a cooler nearby and takes out another glass bottle of brown liquor. He takes four more swigs to fight his unsteady mind and scarfs down a bowl of meaty stew to fight against the chill of the night. He stands to embrace the blowing bellows of frigid air as he takes in the oneness that only comes to him with violence.

Like the static before a storm, the feeling sends goosebumps down his body. Quickly, he binds his hair into a sloppy ponytail, taming the disarray as he ties back pale strands of moonlight that give little resistance. His beard, equally white and far messier, is braided for the night — Acts of Violence against Chagrin, his favorite pastime, is about to start, and it takes him forever to grow back his beard whenever he loses it.

Headed from his perch, Zaitsev follows an unsteady path downward. With each drunken step, fragments of rusting scrap clatter around him, and he pays them no mind. Leaping down from his walls, he whistles sharply. The sound bleeds into the night sky’s deep violet, and a chorus of yips and howls grow incessantly in response — A sure sign that the creatures are inching their way toward his yard.

He throws his head back, gulps down a mighty breath of air and screams back louder. Determination, incoherence, entertainment and excitement find familiarity in his declaration. He smiles, walking deeper into his yard and navigating through the sprawling expanse of his reclaimed kingdom. His hand brushes against the corroded walls with fondness. Despite the rough conditions, this scrap yard had become the only home he had ever known. These fights with the Chagrin are just a part of living here.

He marks a dog tag he had missed previously, a poor replacement for a soldier he likely would have called a friend. Scooping it up, he places it gently into his pocket and tucks it for good measure, keeping it safe. The landscape of debris he has pieced together over the years sprawls outward, surrounding a willowing tower of flesh. Badly burned, a hulking flesh-hive slumps limply at the heart of his yard.

He stares as it passes by, recalling the inferno he ignited inside of it, how the flames consumed the hive from the inside out, how the walls pulsating came to a stop, how the Chagrin that ran screaming from him out of the fire were beaten to a pulp, creating the original pile. It was the first thing he could remember and, subsequently, his favorite thing to remember.

His eyes linger for a moment before he takes a sharp left, passing through a homemade graveyard for all the soldiers he spent days recovering from the hive. Another right takes him, and he finally comes upon his home, a shipping container half sunken into the dirt. The container, a rusting metal box, sinks, leaning amidst several others.

The container’s weathered exterior is adorned with an array of joyful embellishments. Hand-painted murals bring splashes of color to the otherwise drab olive surface. Scenes of landscapes paint abstract renderings of both Earth and the mystic realm; they intertwine in dreamy hues — The colors are wrong but beautiful regardless. Amidst these artistic expressions, crude slogans and quips are scrawled in messy handwriting. ‘43’ is plastered in big orange numbers right across the doors of the container.

Around the container — A wind chime made from spent bullet casings and fragments of metal, its tinkle providing a strangely comforting soundtrack to the surroundings.

A small, well-tended garden of hardy, post-apocalyptic flora occupies one side, adding a touch of greenery. The garden, protected by scavenged wire mesh, boasts a collection of lettuce, potatoes, summer squashes and many other hardy vegetables scavenged from food transports left still intact. He waters them each before he opens his front doors, taking in the familiar sight and smell of home.

The interior is a surprisingly spacious patchwork of makeshift comfort and practicality. The walls, insulated with materials taken from the abandoned vehicles, give the space a cozy, tent-like feel. Small, battery-powered LED lights strung across the ceiling bathe the interior in a warm, inviting white glow, while one corner is dedicated to a compact kitchenette, an improvised cooking area equipped with an assortment of pots and pans hanging over to a countertop fashioned from an old door. Spices and vegetables sit out sliced on the counter under shelves above, holding a hodgepodge of spices and canned goods, their labels faded but still promising nourishment, though their taste and freshness cannot be guaranteed.

Opposite the kitchenette, a small bookshelf holds a random collection of books and manuals, their pages dog-eared and well-thumbed. In the corner, embers from his last fire still sizzle, freshly cut meat hanging over the spit roast, dripping fatty solution slowly as a wisp of smoke pours from a hole, cut center and circular in the roof of the container above it.

He snatches a handful of meat off the spit and heads to a sturdy bunk bed, its frame made from metal scraps and draped with heavy blankets. Beneath the bed, storage boxes contain personal belongings, keepsakes, tools and a pile of dog tags. On the wall, a collage of photographs taken during his time spent in the mystic realm, sketches, and notes come together to create a string of memories, a poorly scrawled calendar marking the passage of time. Above it all, a worn teddy bear sits atop a shelf, its one-eyed gaze watching over the home with vigilance. Mold-covered fuzzy dice, too dirty to determine true color, hang from a makeshift nightstand next to his bed, adding a hint of odd-smelling whimsy to the mix, while a bloodied ten-gallon hat sits on top of a mannequin nearby. Together, these things all come together to make what Zaitsev called home, and he loved it.

Shaking his head, he takes the weathered dog tag from his pocket, the metal chimes, a whisper of someone’s life. With care, he places it in the pile inside one of the boxes under his bed. Taking his lingering eyes away, he heads to the living area on the other corner. The salvaged sofa is decorated with mismatched cushions and deep stains. Behind the sofa, the wall holds an impressive collection of weapons, meticulously organized despite its deadly contents.

Hands on his hips, Zaitsev bobs his head, noting that in his past life he must have been an interior designer to get everything looking so well put together. Blades of all shapes and sizes, from sleek knives to hefty machetes, hang proudly, though many show signs of use — Chips, notches, and worn handles, each is an extension of Zaitsev’s will to survive, every flaw in the metal another memory of a moment when life or limb hung in the balance.

Zaitsev smiles warmly as he flicks the hanging cutlery, moving over to the firearms, ranging from handguns to more sophisticated rifles, mounted alongside the blades.

From among the wall, he retrieves a mag rifle, its form and function as familiar to him as the very muscle and marrow of his being. He inspects it with deft hands — On the rifle’s side, the inscription "Authorized property of G.U.I.S.T" gleams, the globe and olive insignia underneath worn well.

He runs a practiced hand over the rifle, feeling for the familiar indentations and contours, checking for pitting and wear. Engaging the magnetic charging handle, He waits and listens for the soft whine of magnetic coils to begin charging up. Selector still set to ‘safe,’ he tests the trigger; it gives him no movement — A good sign. After a quick toggle, the safety is off, and he squeezes the trigger lightly. The thrum of released magnetic energy is brief but telling.

He pulls back the charging handle once more, and the internal mechanisms reset with a quiet click.

With a satisfied grunt, he finishes his functions check and begins taking fistfuls of metal from neatly arranged piles of collected junk beside the sofa. He shoves small springs, scraps and all manner of broken metallic things and slots the scavenged shards into the weapon’s feed tray. The gears take hold with a satisfying click of readiness. Powerful crushing behind inside the weapon, compressing the metal, refining the scrap into thick rail-like spikes. He continues adding until the reserves are full. His movements are rhythmic and easy, a dance of routine. Satisfied with his weapon, Zaitsev peels away his blouse, drab-olive. Each button is un-fastened, and both sleeves are folded in alignment with the shirt’s bottom edge. The collar and bottom are brought near, almost touching, leaving a small, deliberate space. He folds it at this interval, imprinting a neat line already pressed in the cloth’s memory.

Placing the blouse down with a final comforting pat, he stares at the name "Sunderson’’ inscribed on the right breast pocket and the massive tear over the stomach area. Fingers trace over large claws like tears, and his own chest rattles as he does. His ribs warm, then start to burn, the sounds of screams reverberate in his head, and a vision of himself from a small alcove worms its way from the back of his mind to the forefront. When he closes his eyes, he sees a hand reaching toward him— A howl nearby sends him standing stark straight with a chuckle, dismissing any thoughts taking root in his mind.

Staring at the wall of his container until sense returns, he wipes sweat from his brow and goes back to preparations for the night. With finality, he assures his undershirt is tucked neatly and slings the mag rifle over his shoulder, its heft a familiar comfort against his back.

Heading over to a mini-fridge in the kitchenette and opening the doors he grabs another glass bottle, swinging down cold, starchy vodka. Four hard gulps, as always, before he shakes the drops out and walks towards the front of his scrap

yard. A broken tank that serves as his door is pushed aside as he sucks in a deep breath, pushes it out of its assigned slot, and exits his domain. His stride outside to the clearing is full of swaggering confidence; the frosty whisper of his breath carries a sardonic edge as he taunts the lurking predators with a smirk — As much an invitation as it is a threat.

Ah, my dear guests, such timidity does not become you, he chides loudly, a Russian lilt rolling with sing-song derision. Waiting for an invitation, da? He fires several shots into the horde, slowly creeping out from the forest edge, precise shots each finding their marks — Violence incites among the gangrenous group as the beast feasts among the fallen.

Come closer, come closer! We have such….magnetism between us. He giggles childishly to himself, eyes becoming slants as monstrous forms become enticed by meat and noise. The brave step forward. They fall with every pull of the trigger. Zaitsev’s smile sharpens as more abominations draw near. Teeth, claws, wings or bellies drag them towards him. Despite their clear rejection of sensible body structure, his own stance is unwavering, a defiant monolith against the encroaching grotesqueries.

A particularly ugly Chagrin, the bravest in this batch of nature’s rejects, slithers forward; its form a mockery of life, with limbs that writhe wildly, loosely connected to an arched spine, all angled wrongly. It is a living system of barely glued-together flesh that unleashes its visceral screech upon the wind — The serpentine aberration twists into an obscene question mark as it rises above him, unfolding its maw, it bares massive fangs, a blossom’s bloom of razor-sharp teeth and rearing forward, it lunges with supernatural speed, splinter-like teeth coming within inches of Zaitsev.

In less than a hearts-beat, its shriek is silenced, and a magnetic pulse sends a searing metal rail down its throat, through its abdomen and out through the back of its spine. The spike takes flesh, bone and sinew with it on the way out, and the serpentine creature is left split in two, dead on the ground where it pounced.

The air quiets and grows thick with the coppery tang of blood. Zaitsev licks his lips as warm blood splatters over his face. His smile spreads a bit further as the horde edges just a bit closer.

They come then — The other Chagrin. Drawn in by the scent of blood and spite.

A frenzy of flesh and desperation rushes towards him. Shuffling, dragging and galloping. Zaitsev’s response is ruthless. He sidesteps the onslaught. Jolly taunts drowned amidst the cacophony of carnage unfolding around him. He fights fatigue, a foreign concept; he is a man outside of physical need, and as always, his existence is a perpetual deal with death. Firing shot after shot, he weaves between, over and around monster after fallen monster.

He slays in beautiful succession until, in the heat of battle, his mind wanders towards the name emblazoned on his blouse, desperate to remember the significance behind the person it belonged to. As his mind wanders, complacency, the enemy of the vigilance, strikes from behind. From the horrid brood, retribution writhes — A Chagrin, hidden among the bodies, waits, its elongated pincers clicking with deadly intent.

Sensing the distraction, it bears down on the Zaitsev with serrated pincers, angular barbs finding their mark on his right side, rending flesh from bone.

Sent into a tailspin, he turns, momentum changed by the bite, pain searing across his body. His right arm hangs next to him — Degloved, slapping limply against his side, no more than a wet, meaty rag dangling uselessly.

He kicks hard against the attacker’s head and buys space, stumbling backward. His rifle is dropped, sent scattering among the squabbling monsters. He grits his teeth and tears off the remaining nub of his right arm, tossing it into the crowd of waiting monsters. Like greedy children, they fight for the scraps, the more desperate ones tearing into each other, the more intelligent ones more interested in the man’s remaining body — They close in on him, hungry eyes gleaming.

He laughs at their excuses for faces. A line of anger slipped into the mix. His arm bubbles, the flesh exploding outward, repairing itself. Bone reconnects and regrows, a searing affirmation of warmth igniting within him, running down his spine, his pain fueling the regeneration. His forearm creates bone, sews new skin, weaves new veins and finally, blood flow returns, restoring function. Function restoring fight. Fight to restore violence.

He rages, screaming out a horrible guttural sound as he twists the knife loose from his boot holster — Wielding it in his left hand with vengeful hot malice.

With a savage leap, he dives into the nearest group of monsters, taking chunks from muscle. He tears at the Chagrin who took his arm, slicing, hacking and biting it with inhuman ferocity. A wildness danced through his eyes as he smashed, spit and screamed until only he remained, bloodied and standing atop a small pile of horrible, disfigured bodies. The pincered Chagrin’s carcass is displayed at the center of the slaughter — Trophy-like.

He lets out a grunt that resonates with the raw essence of survival, eyes darting, wild. As he calms, his breath is the only sound rattling, rolling rage, hefting in and out — In and then out.

The rising of his chest slows, and the remaining Chagrin finds reason to backstep, their momentum paused. Before they can retreat, Zaitsev becomes movement incarnate, a whirlwind of blade and bone flying in every direction. His body sustains and deals out carnage in equal measure; for every limb he loses, he takes ten in its place. The moons watch, impassive witnesses, as he crafts a macabre painting with the remains of his adversaries, an artist with a pointed brush and access exclusive to red hue. The intensity of killing wanes with the rising of the stars, the burned plain bathed in an otherworldly glow of blood.

As if in mercy, dawn heralds the end of his grisly toil. Zaitsev stands alone atop a mound of monsters, the lone survivor once again. In the afterglow of the skirmish, he squats and stares into the forest mindlessly. Time passes him as he breathes, regaining a semblance of self; chills run down his spine as he heads back towards his scrap, his stride measured. He shuffles mindlessly through the bloody clearing.

He calms and, with deliberate motions, hoists the heaviest of the fallen foes, a herculean effort that causes a momentary crease of strain to mar his otherwise unwavering smile. The strain brings with it unsettling memories, as always — A small glimpse inward. He feels time slow and mindlessly reflects on how long it has been since he last slept.

Unable to remember, he spends time staring into the cold forest beyond the clearing until he is returned to the present, where he begins using the carcasses as additions to the wall of bodies lining his yard. Dissuading more of the living nightmares yet to come, he clears the battlefield, finding his trusted rifle, now a casualty of war, broken amidst the battlefield’s detritus. A rare lapse in judgment had led to its demise, and regret bites at him with the sharpness of a winter chill. He grumbles to himself as he picks the pieces up; intrusive and bothersome memories invading him more often as the years pass, making life and living more complicated.

He clears his head, ignoring lingering thoughts and returns to the present. Lacking both the components and the knowledge to mend its systems, he recognizes the gravity of his oversight. Many of the rifles he has with more conventional weapon fire would only slow the beast, and a battle of blades with the Chagrin was always painful, costly and more dangerous. As strong and resilient as he was, he seriously doubted his immortality.

Fighting with just blades had the humbling ability to overwhelm him, and he had spent a few unfortunate hours as Chagrin food, learning his lesson the first time. As the first lights of dawn finished clawing their way across the sky, his laborious corpse collection bears its fruit in the form of heavy silhouettes reinforcing his scrap walls. The final carcass is slotted neatly into place like a bloody puzzle piece with a dull thud as the day’s nascent warmth begins to wrestle with the chill of the departing night.

Finally, he allows himself a moment of respite, a moment to stand alone amidst the silence of his sanctuary, a still figure alone and alive. He breathes out worry and stress before cutting chunks of flesh off the less-rotted beast and preparing his next meal. In the final slices, from the stillness of the clearing in the forest comes a rattle of chains, cutting and humming through the air — White hairs stand on edge, and he whirls around, watching a massive procession of mystic beings emerge from the forest Zaitsev watches as the horizon fills with the outline of the Emperor of the mystic realm.

chapter  2

The Emperor of the mystic realm is a mangled giant hidden under a tapestry of old rags.

His bulbous form slumps atop a cold stone dais, his true form unknowable, his outline obfuscated by odd contours only gifting the smallest of glimpses and hints. Beneath the large dais he slumps upon, four loyal vessels squat. Gray goliaths are burdened under the weight of the throne, though their faces, veiled with sheer cloth, reveal no stress. In the forest at the edges of Zaitsev’s clearing, the Emperor’s dais burst through the last of the tree line, making a B-line to the scrap yard.

His caravan, a loyal following of mystic beings, trails behind him, leaning, slouching and walking in and around a massive cart pulled by mighty Chagrin.

Zaitsev shoulders his broken rifle and heads toward the entrance of his scrap yard, stopping just outside to see The massive Emperor looming at the entrance —  Patiently, he waits for an invitation inside, staring downward. Polite, as always.

Looking up at the mass of rags and mystery, Zaitsev acknowledges him with a nod, looking him over with the usual amount of curiosity.

The Emperor, even in the mystic realm, is otherworldly in his presentation. He slouches, draped elegantly in his signature multicolored patchwork cloth, several eye holes cut out sloppily around his head. Atop it, a golden crown rests —  A jagged halo that hums with dominion. He haunts silently over Zaitsev like a colorful and friendly ghost, observing closely as Zaitsev’s eyes drift down to the four hulking beings that heft the Emperor’s stone dais beneath. Their faces, hunched under the weight, are stone-still, and their bodies, nearly human, are shaped as if an alien attempted to mold a human from clay off description alone —  Genderless and doll-like.

Ever curious, Zaitsev leans in closer, squinting to peer past the thin veil covering their faces. Even after all this time, he is still unable to help but find them a little creepy.

Without warning, one of the throne carriers shakes violently, its chest gurgling and shifting. Innards rearrange interior space to make room for speech and its proper anatomy — The shifting continues for a few heartbeats until the vessel speaks.

"May I come in?" the vessel asks. Its voice was accented and polite, like a kindly middle-aged man from upper-Britannia. As it speaks, the Emperor reveals two hands, palms presented sky-ward — Puppy-like pleading for entry.

Moments pass, and the vessel returns to its normal stance, unbreathing and stone still. All four watch Zaitsev’s face with a gaze that holds eons, waiting for him to speak — Patient as