The netherman

The Netherman
Prologue

I am Wiseman, a wandering chronicler. I travel the Netherlands, the corrupted wilds of planet Earth, in search of information. Chroniclers like me seek to preserve the tales of man, the triumphs and tribulations of the human species, protected by the most enigmatic deity known only as 'The Goddess.' Her forces of dark metal soldiers guard the citadels, the last bastions of humanity, with unrivaled fervor.

I recall the singular incident that inspired me to become a chronicler; a day, decades ago when I wondered the Nether lands in search of scrap to repair the steam machines back home. In the distance, across the desolate, grassless landscape, the melodic strumming of a stringed instrument caught my attention. I followed the sound to its source, to a man—a man with a face of withered flesh, his bottom jaw decayed down to the skeleton, hidden beneath the wide, flat brim of a tall-crowned slouch hat. His form-fitting trench coat billowed in the wind, partially revealing a series of daggers with hints of red metal on the base of the hilts, sheathed upon his thigh as he sat upon a pile of bones and metal. The faint glint of the red metal caught the light, a deadly yet artistically delicate, almost organic in their design.

Around him, the desolate landscape stretched endlessly, as he sat as a silent witness to the carnage. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with a faint, unexpected aroma carried by the wind. He continued strumming, even as his eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his wide brimmed hat, scanned the horizon, the weight of his purpose etched into the lines of his withering face. The wind whispered through the bones at his feet, a haunting reminder of battles fought and lives lost. In the distance, a single red flower grew among the rubble, defiant against the bleakness, its petals a vibrant contrast to the desolation.

I crouched behind a pile of decaying dark metal soldiers before he could notice me, eyeing his seven foot long dueling sword that protruded from a custom made back scabbard, the polished metal glinted in the twilight as his strumming slowed to a halt. That man was a legend, one I thought existed only in myths. He was… The Netherman


And then, I laid eyes upon her. The goddess herself! She possessed an inhuman beauty—her skin as black as midnight, pierced with myriad tubes and tendrils, the same that lined the innards of her dark metal soldiers. A writhing mass of mechanical tendrils ensnared in viscous black magic goo that seemed to emanate from her very being, pouring onto the ground behind her in an endless, pulsing flow. Suspended in the air, she towered above the landscape as though descending from heaven. Though beautiful in parts, the overall spectacle rendered her more monstrous than human.
I can still feel the air as it crackled with tension as the Goddess halted before the Netherman. The ancient battlefield, littered with the lifeless shells of her dark metal soldiers and the bones of humans and beasts alike, served as a silent witness to their countless confrontations. The Netherman was the first to break the silence, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.

“I remember way back when we were kids in our twenties…when we had our band, playing in run down dive bars and greasy spoons for pennies. Those were the days, huh? I remember how, after practice I would always find your greasy hands on my guitar. I never knew why; you hated playing the bass.”

“The world…was a far different place back then,” the Goddess replied, her tone soft yet authoritative, like a stern but loving mother.

“We…were different.”

“It took me centuries to realize that you always touching my things, that’s just how you showed your own bratty version of love…back when you were capable of it,” the Netherman said, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice.

Love? Was the Netherman a consort of the goddess? A lover? Her husband?

“I am still capable of it,” she responded, her voice firm yet tinged with sorrow.
The Netherman smirked, tossing the stringed instrument to her. “But can you still play?”

With lightning reflexes, she caught it without flinching. After a brief examination, she positioned the strange instrument against her body and began to strum the same meloncholic tune the Netherman played before. He applauded sarcastically as he slowly rose from his seated position.

“Fancy that, you can still play. You play every note with precision, a mechanical accuracy…that’s devoid of any emotion,” he derided, his voice dripping with mockery.
The Goddess’s fingers snapped several of the strings on the instrument, her scowl deepening. She then gripped it by its slender neck, shattering it to splinters as she tightened her grip around it. The Netherman winced, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Relics like that are hard to come by. You know how much care it takes to keep a guitar like that working for two thousand years?” he asked, his tone softening slightly.
“You still believe they can save themselves,” the Goddess interjected, changing the subject. Her voice now tinged with both sorrow and frustration. “After all these centuries, you still cling to that naive hope.”
The Netherman’s eyes, as dark as the void, rose from their hiding place beneath his wide brimmed hat to meet hers. “And you still think you’re their only salvation.” he replied, his voice steady but laden with a history of pain, anger and bitterness. “It’s not about saving them, sister. It’s about giving them a chance to save themselves.”
“When will you stop this madness? When will you cease this foolish tradition of challenging me on the anniversary of their deaths?”
“Hmph, listen to you, talkin’ all high and mighty like you’re actually some kind of goddess…I know the real you, I know the angry, bitter woman beneath all that shadow and steel.”
“Youre an idiot…Darryl. You’ve never had a problem…consorting with those monsters. Especially that vampire—
“Watch your damned mouth!” The Netherman growled. I reeled as I watched from behind a pile of metallic corpses; I couldn’t believe he had the gall to interrupt the goddess! “You leave any mention of her off your lips!”
“She was a whore!”
“She was the mother of my child! Your niece! Your blood!”
“I…regret the collateral damage, but not the death of a monster.”
Niece?! I thought to myself. They’re…siblings?!
In my disbelief, I lost my footing and stumbled forward into the pile of mechanized remains. The goddess’s attention immediately snapped to me, and she raised her open palm. Black magic and mechanical tendrils swirled around her arm, coalescing into a ball just before her hand as she prepared to attack. However, her assault came to an abrupt end as the Netherman severed her arm at the elbow. His movements were so fast and fluid that I barely registered them until he came to a halt on the opposite side of the goddess from where he had stood moments before.
"I’m surprised it took you that long to notice the boy hiding," the Netherman chided, his back still to the goddess as she fixed her gaze on him, completely unbothered by the loss of an appendage. "But the only blood shed today will be yours…sister."
"And yours…brother," she responded as the severed arm was reabsorbed into the black mass of magic and metal that surrounded her and, within seconds, a new appendage sprouted from the severed nub. "He’s been eavesdropping since my arrival…he has heard too much."
"You’ve become a tyrant."
"And you’ve always been a fool," the Goddess countered, spreading her arms to either side. She rose higher into the air upon the outflow of viscous mysticism and tendrils that flowed from and throughout her being. "Why do you refuse to understand that everything I do is for the greater good?"
"A tyrant’s four favorite words," the Netherman retorted. "You remember how you used to call me a cynic? I never did hold the ignorant masses in very high regard, but…I always believed they should be able to trip over their own two feet. They don’t need you sticking your leg out to help."
“If it were not for me, the vampire nation would have turned humanity into cattle!” the Goddess bellowed, her voice booming across the landscape and shaking me to my bones. I began to sprint, unable to resist the instinct to flee. "I saved them when the Vampire hoards attacked my citadels! I created the dark metal army that protected them from a fate worse than death!”
“This song and dance again?” The Netherman scoffed dismissively as he turned to face the Goddess, bouncing the dull end of his dueling blade across the back of his shoulder blades a childlike playfulness. “The only thing your soldiers did was enforce your will.”
“I am their savior! I am the Goddess! Not a tyrant!" Her eyes blazed with a fierce, almost desperate determination to sway the Netherman’s opinion; her tone, heavy with conviction and the weight of her sacrifices.
"The road to hell is paved with good intention, sis.”
“The iron fist…” The goddess paused, the sudden softening of her tone catching my attention as I halted in my tracks, turning back to the conversation with horrified curiosity. She embraced herself as the undulations of the writhing magic that flowed from her slowed. “…is regrettable, but necessary.”
“When survival is involved, there will always be difficult decisions…but you have no right to monopolize those decisions.”
“My power gives me the right and the responsibility”
“Spoken like a true despot,” the Netherman countered. He shifted his stance, widening his legs into a balanced combat stance. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade tightly, the bouncing across the back of his shoulder blades ceasing as he squared his shoulders with a targeted gaze on the Goddess, every muscle in his body tensing in anticipation. “Ace, Beatrice…Xavier and Xondra, what would they think of you? What you’ve become.”
“Leave our siblings out of this!”
“I should have known you would never listen to reason.”
“I…am reason.”
I know not how the battle ended, only that the sudden outpouring of power from the goddess rendered me unconscious. What I do know, however, is that the Netherman survived. Tales of his exploits continued to reach my ears through the decades, even though he was unsuccessful in killing the Goddess. Her dark metal soldiers continued to defend the Citadels, and her influence remained a formidable force. No sapient monster of the Nether lands dared challenge her authority, and few humans dared leave the safety of her protection.
I was one of those few. Chance and curiosity led me to that fateful encounter, and it was my ever-present curiosity that compelled me to join the ranks of the chroniclers. Few believed in the myths of the Netherman; fewer still believed my story of a man, no matter how legendary, challenging the Goddess with nothing but a sword. But I felt it was my duty to record and preserve these tales. The truth, no matter how fantastical, needed to be known. My hope was that future generations would learn from our past and understand the complexities of our struggle for survival.