Spine Insurgency: Nathan Black

Note #1
A man stood in the glum and sullen darkness, his boney back bent over something of seemingly high interest to him. The room was sparsely lit, the only light coming from a lantern to his left. To his right are cages containing convulsing masses of mice, one poorer in health than the other.
Their constant squeaks were oddly synchronized with movements of the man, like he was some conducter of some morbidly horrific orchestra.
"I do not want to do this" he muttered quietly to himself, a mixture of the roughness of death and the smoothness of an Eastern Lordaeronian.
His fingers were in the process of pouring the contents of one beaker into another. Crimson red into ocean blue. Upon contact, the resultant concoction bubbled fiercely, allowing a toxin fume of white smoke to leave. 
"It is such a waste" he continued, speaking a bit more audible despite his only company being the mice.
Mysterious items went into the now emerald, viscous broth which stirred and sneered at each twig, each body part being dumped into it. Swirling lively from side to side when the man placed a small insect in it.
The poor creature was devoured wholly, not a trace left in the restless, green goop.
"Inevitably, all will be ours regardless of what occurs."
The man opened one of the small cages and retrieved one of the mice with gloved fingers holding too long nails. Claws, more like it.
The mouse was strapped with a small cow-hide belt to his worktop, while the man fetched a rubber pipette. Some of the green slime swirled into it, and the pipette hovered above the terror-striken mouse which did it's best to escape the iron grip of the cow-hide belt. Its efforts were in vain.
"One kill is one step closer to absolution", the man said, and squeezed the pipette. The poisonously green fluid fought its way out of the glass tube reluctantly, hung at the end of it while waking up, and finally sprung off, landing in the soft fur of the mouse.
The man watched the animal intensely as the droplet of death nestled into the fur of it. Nothing happened.
"What now?" the man asked, a deep frown carving into his moon-pale forehead.
But then, a quiet sizzle sounded, and the man lightened up. The mouse twisted and turned and spun and clawed, gruesomely accompanied with soul-tearing screeches, whimpers and cries for mercy.
No respite was given. The fur on which the bilious mucus was dropped slowly fell, and the site underneath was a macabre artwork of sprung veins, gangrene and other harrowed things.
The man smiled, success had been achieved for him and his languid cause.
"Such a waste to release this on orcs!"
Note #2
The sullen fog invading the docks did not help to dispell that already gloomy atmosphere that clung like lichen to the bustling trade port. Nightfall always brought out the unscrupulous, particularly so in goblin communities. This fateful eve was no different.
The tall, yet broken figure walked down the broad street, past brothels and shops whose windows were like frightful eyes glowing pathetic beams of orange candlelight onto the cobblestone. Even so, it was black as pitch. Occasionally, the figure would step into one of the beams, and his flowing black robes would tease and seduce the shadows around him in kaleidoscopic fashions. The paleness of his brilliantly dull skin flashed here and now in the fluid attire, like little tufts of bone-clouds upon a sky darker than black. The yellow, toothy smile only underlined the harrowing visage. 
His stroll was slow, deliberate, certain and unstoppable - he ceased to walk only when he stood before a rot-eaten door with red electrical light attempting to flee through the many fractures.
"Knock-knock" it sounded from beneath the dusk cowl in a suave, yet oddly accented voice. The source could be anyone, but there was a human feel to his voice. 
A small clasp was beaten aside by his waist, and sickly yellow eyes peared out from behind the door.
"What?" said a stereotypically goblin voice. Low gnashing sounds accompanied it.
"I am here to speak with the party."
"Right, right. Name?"
"Edgar McGey."
"Never heard of ya'."
A cascade of little clacks and clicks followed that, and the light finally escaped. At first it was blinding, but soon it became apparent just how futile it was against the moist darkness outside. It did bring the 'Edgar McGey' person into view though. No, it was no healthy human.
His sockets were empty, no mirrors to reflect whatever dark soul there may reside in his rotten heart. Flowing, coarse hair hung in loose curtains down his shoulders, hiding yellowed bone protruding though his skin here and there. His lips were dull grey, together with the rest of his ash-skin.
Once inside, and the broken door was fastened to the frame again, it suddenly became a lot more homely. It was an amusement theatre, a large stage surrounded by small, loyal isles of chairs and tables meant for human visitors. Strictly ordered aisles allowed patrons and staff to and from the quartets of chairs.
It would have been cosy weren't it for the sheer abandonment that was appearant. More than half of the chairs in the building were covered in a thin film of cobweb. Dust had snuck its way into everywhere like a granite scourge blighting the land. Most of the furniture seemed as though they were about to break. And the only staff present were mottled goblins sat on a counter with wooden mallets in their hands, watching everyone.
Because despite the derelict facilities, there were a lot of people in the chairs. Humans, orcs, goblins, Forsaken, elves of all species, and so on. They were so diverse in their background, yet they all had a similar countenance. Not one of them looked like someone on the right side of the law, and black seemed to be the prefered colour in their clothing.
It seemed that they were waiting for someone. Some were idly conversing over the small tables, others asleep in their chairs. 
And that someone had just arrived.
Edgar made his way down one of the isles, slapping hungry hands away from his nonexistant pockets all the way, until he stood on the stage, for a moment straightening his back, and in that, sending insanity-tingling snaps and creaks onto the audience. They hardly noticed.
"Good evening", he greeted loudly. Laughter ceased, snores stopped, and the attention was on him.
"You may know me as Edgar McGey, but most of you already know that that is false. I will leave it up to you to figure out what my true identity is."
No reaction from the crowd, not a single cough or whisper. They were almost as dead as him.
"I am here to speak to you about The Spine, and how you can profit from it."
With that, the level of attention skyrocketed.
Three hours later, the man disappeared into the gloom through the poor door again, not to be seen again for a long, long while.
That night inside was spent in whooping, cheering and plotting. Edgar was a phenomenal speaker, and the crowd ate it raw.
A week passed, and one thousand miles away, Edgar slumped against a chair in a small, conical inn in Gadgetzan. It was unremarkably still in here, a few huddles of people here and there, most of which were clad in white or tan equipment, to shield against the brutal Tanarisi sun.
"I will not keep you occupied for long, gentlemen" he began with, eyeing a brown human. He was of morbidly muscular build, and despite being inside, wore a veil that masked his mouth and forehead with white cloth. Only his brown eyes were visibly, or rather, what remained - one of them had no iris, and almost shone white blindness.
"I will only relate to you how you are going to profit immensely from The Spine and their interests, and I will only do so once, so listen to me closely". Five people shuffled closer to him, and he began to speak.
Note #3
"Say aah to the good doctor."
Her screams echoed and rebounded off the barren walls of the cleft. Long, chilling and bone-hollowing.
The man continued regardless, surgically destroying the poor elven woman's body chunk by chunk. His quiet, occasional laughter and his witty comments could remind someone as an ordinary visit to the physician. If it wasn't for that the ivory skin beneath the 'good doctor' was veined with dark red lines of open wounds.
Sooner than later, her cries were intermeddled with a much deeper variant - more brutish and harsh, obviously stemming from an orc or tauren. They were roars, not cries though - of anger, of anguish, none could discern. 
On and on the symphony of teror raged, some morbid orchestration of utmost pain and suffering.
They lasted to much later that night, when the woman was dropped, half-dead, and left with a self-proclaimed tender.
Crawling in an inhuman shape, sideways using legs and arms as if some crustacean, the motley-costumed jester had taken a great affinity for the destroyed being. 
They spent the night together in the damp cave, listening to the drooping pond and the sounds of outside as well as in. Something was almost happening.
The last thing that the elven woman heard before unconsciousness dripped into her soul, was the feeble, high-pitched voice of the impish clown in mind-bending droning.
"Sleep, baby, sleep,
Your father tends the sheep,
Your mother shakes the dreamland tree,
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee,
Sleep, sleep, baby, sleep, Our cottage vale is deep ,
The little lamb is on the green,
With snowy fleece white and clean."
Note #4
What does it feel like to die twice? For many, the opportunity will not arise. For a few however, it does. One of these lucky persons was Nathan Black. Nathan, as the supposed head of the Spine, was one of the most sought after Forsaken in his unlife. 
During it, he would often describe his cause as inevitable, and that the Spine was a mere stepping stone which would sooner or later perish. Strangely enough, one never caught his opinion on his death.
Well, that is not really true. He said a few things, it is rumoured, to Amaran and Kim’belore. Whether they chose to relay it or not…
Interestingly, his background revealed a great deal about his thoughts on the subject. Death was his enterprise, and he was constantly surrounded by it. He died untimely by the hands of his sister. His father died beforehand, again by his sister. His mother and his sister’s mother died ten years prior.
Even in undeath, he was constantly hugging death. He spun it, was close to experience it, wreaked it, concocted it – death, death everywhere. So it is suggested that he had a very simple view of death.
Only that, he hadn’t.
From the charred remains of his corpse, a small locket was recovered. This locket contained two things – a small portrait of a living woman with short, blonde hair, striking emerald eyes and gaunt, east-Lordaeronian facial features. The woman depicted is quite fair. Underneath that, there was a yellowed page with a note written in the discernibly curved writing of Nathan Black himself. It goes as following:
«If you have found this note, then it is very likely that I am no longer on this soil.
I wager that pride, relief, happiness and rejoice is what you feel. The menace is no longer here. You should feel that way. Natural. It is also natural to let your guard grow lax as a result of drunken celebration. It is all part of a pattern. The pattern of inevitability. 
It is a peculiar pattern, this grand scheme of time. Everything happens in accordance to it. Everything is inevitable. 
Death is inevitable, the fact that you will continue to read these letters, is inevitable. Life is inevitable.
So why did I fight on? Why did I go on despite knowing that I will die?
Because the path of inevitability ends in legacy. 
My legacy is not death, havoc and destruction. Mine is like your ambitions – pure, glorified, good. 
I spread death, havoc and destruction, because there is a balance of life – inevitability is, paradoxically enough, filled with chaos and uncertainty. Therefore, in order to reach this state of perfect good, perfect evil must take place.
Hence, the end justifies the means.
But is that truly why I committed myself thus to this cause? 
Do I not value my own life?
I suppose I do. The very thought of dying makes my rotting skin crawl with terror. My being does not wish to cease. My soul does not wish to leave this rotten carcass of a vessel. 
But that, friend, is all I am. A vessel. 
The vessel of chance and inevitability.» 
Of course, that note proves nothing. It could easily be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. But it does raise questions.
Nevertheless, after his death, and after his corpse had been picked clean, his beliefs were never uncovered. What was uncovered, though, was that he was surprisingly weak. Did he intend to die? And if so, why?
Questions, questions, questions that will never be answered. One thing is for certain, though. Nathan Black is no longer a threat to the world, and will forever linger in the realm of Shadow with those that he holds most dear.