Spine Insurgency: Collection of Various Stories

== Teorius Darkcast==
A metal door slowly opening. Sunlight shining into the dark chambers. A lone person walking towards it. An undead man, covered in elegant green Apothecary robes and a gasmask. A masterly crafted Runesword hanging over his back.
"How long have it been..."
Teorius Darkcast, Apothecary, had been working. Having no need of sleep or food, and being far under ground, had made time non-important. All that had been important was his work. Now he was ascending up above ground.
"Days or weeks?"
He looked up to the skies as he left the crypt. Blue and light, a few clouds. It was daytime. As he lowered his gaze he ended up staring at a bunch of Deathguards, all with their weapons drawn.
"Doctor Darkcast, you are to come with us, unless you want to be executed in place for Treason."
== The Zeppelin Crash ==
Note #1
The skies were aflame and roaring. Darkness of the night, their time, her time was disturbed with this raining from above hell. The Den Mother glared up and followed the crashing zeppelin with a long flickering in the night gaze. Pride of twelve behind her roared back at the mechanical creature that dared to challenge them on their territory. The Den Mother snarled shortly and moved forward, away from her cave and towards the hills overlooking the crash site.
By the time she and her pride reached the hills survivors were already fighting for their wounded. Huntress of the Wild inhaled the thick air watching people below - it smelled with fire and burned metal. It smelled with blood and death. There weren't that many survivors, yet they seemed to pose threat - some clad in heavy armor, some equipped with threatening weapons. Beast stretched and sent a rolling through the air roar, that made one of the elves twitch and a troll look around in panic.
" We should move before we get eaten."
Eventually they did move, carrying the wounded with them. She and her pride followed, circling around and snarling lowly through the darkness. Survivors could see amber eyes sparking in the night and it spurred them on, further in the unknown area, until they stumbled over abandoned hut and settled there, hastily making fire. Beasts were still around - in the faint moonlight now and then their hulking feline silhouettes would show up on top of the hills prowling across the area.
The two of them moved away from the camp. Both big and strong, clad in armor. One of them, the elf, was shouting commands before and she knew he might be their alpha. Take him out and rest will shatter. She could smell another hunter in the night, rotting, dark, and she remained away from him, her beastial senses telling her to keep safe from this creature. 
Now was her opportunity, the two moved between the massive savannah trees.
Skrag Grimscull and Sorlain Amaran turned around on the low snarl behind their backs. Not only they had wildlife as their problem, but also the pesky undead who kept attacking people and had to be dealt with. But right now their problem was entering the scene from beneath the heavy cover of the night.
The beast facing them was huge. They could easily tell, that this one was a leader - her hulking body reached above Amaran's waist in the collar, the razorsharp claws were out digging into soil beneath the massive paws. Dark golden fur dotted black along the spine, with a few narrow stripes going down her sides - beautiful hide with deadly force of constantly tensing and relaxing muscles beneath it. Beast snarled, a set of big and sharp fangs shown, remaining utterly still on her spot. Her ears were pulled back and pressed down against her head, maw frozen in a threatening grin. For a few moments she kept her amber eyes on the elf before switching to the orc.
She felt his strength being greater and he sheathed the weapon out upon her entrance. The pride behind her formed a half-circle, remaining deep in the shadows of the night, only their eyes letting the two-legged intruders know that beast is not alone. It was a challenge of the night - will they break and be killed or will they stand up and buy themselves this night in peace?
This is their territory.
Orc growled menacingly back, swinging his weapon in front of himself. The Den Mother snarled once in response and her posture changed from aggressive dominance to calm retreat. She just moved backwards, keeping eye contact with the orc, and slowly dispersed in the night with the rest of her pack.
This night the survivors will be safe.
Note #2
"I had a cat once."
Fierce, rolling growl dissipated out across the tan mountain. Tall, dry grass swayed soothingly in the brisk wind that raged up here. The sun was just setting, splaying beautiful hues of gold, azure and purple across the painted sky.
"Lazy little shite."
Lower snarl sounded, and from a thick net of wheat-like tall grass, a tiger sprung out, almost as big as the man onto which it pounced, tearing and rending away at his exposed flesh.
"Didn't catch the mice, was fat, and ate all me food."
A clamour of rotten flesh and bones fell from the perched tip of the tent and onto the distracted Blood Knight. Amber eyes glowed glumly, caked, blood-red hair swung from side to side as the Undead ripped and shredded away at the armored and not skin of the victim.
"But then, 'e was me cat. Was always there when the crops were bad as usual."
Cry of Forsaken and tiger intermeddled. The sack of decay flew off the blood elf, his arm temporarily engulfed in searing Light. He did not linger, sprinting into the night, not witnessing the decapitation of the graceful feline.
"Good kitty."
The perching rocks overhanging the nest of the pride was somewhat comforting to the crazed Forsaken as he slumped against the largest boulder, placing the 'liberated' arm next to him with the spun threads of rope. Next to him was the hulking beast of a Den Mother, cautiously watching him. After small talk with presumably himself, it laid its 30-kilo head on his lap, and dozed off.
"Admittedly, you're a bit bigger and bit less lazy. The same fat, though."
Cackle of the Forsaken caused a small snarl to sound from the Mother, but it didn't move. It seemed content. Strange image, strange couple, but alas united with the same, hallowed goal.
The survivors must die, for the Spine and for the serenity of the hunting grounds.
Note #3
“You are all I have left, you know. The Spine forsook me, the living want to decapitate me for blowing up their boat. Believe it or not, you-“
A decomposing, boney hand went across the mane-like collar of the hulking den mother, which in turn emitted a deep, rolling purr in satisfaction.
“- are my only friend. After we’ve kill’d them elves, Oi’ll make a little shelter from the debris and shove the res’ down the moun’en so that you can ‘unt again.”
Once more, the massive beast made a noise – this time, a contemplative, serene growl in the back of her throat.
“It’ll all be good.”
***
“NO! STAY AWAY FROM HER!” it rang out between the tall rocks in the den. Skittering across the sand came the two-faced undead, but instead of striking at the tall, ominous troll looming over the rumbling body of the fatigued, dying feline, he buried his body in the pelt of it (a feat made possible by the sheer size of the animal), strenuously embracing the gracefully decrepit body in a sorrowful posture. His charred body was still, almost crackling from every beat of dry wind upon the flaked, seared skin. “You have ruined e’rything! She didn’t… Is she…”
The voice faded off. The troll and the elf stood utterly still, watching the drama unfold. The undead had ceased speaking, because he had noticed how the mother had ceased breathing. With a low howl, he hid himself in the neck of the animal again.
***
Three, talon-like claws went through the dry, barren soil, etching a line into it. The undead next to the paw tutted quietly, and showed the move again.
One bone of a finger into the soil, a quick move down, and voilà, a line had been drawn.
The lion grinned voraciously, and attempted again. Least to say, there was no success – instead of drawing a single line, she had drawn three.
“A’ight, a’ight. Le’s try a face instead, yeah?” 
The squatting man drew a smooth circle in the soil, accompanied with a typical face with a happy mouth.
“Le’s make it an elf.”
He made a few squiggles at the top to represent hair, and two, long elongations at each side. Without a doubt, an elf.
The cat suddenly reached over as he finished, and drew a profound ‘x’ across it. Dead.
The zombie laughed heartily, patting the animal roughly.
“A’ight, you try. Draw me a circle.”
The animal did, simply dragging her paw around as she turned three-sixty degrees. Three circles, but nevertheless, she had done it.
“A face?” 
The den mother shoved a fist into the soil, making two dimples in the sand. Eyes.
She then swiped her claw across the lower half. It was a mouth, sure, but it was a frowning one. 
Once more, the corpse cackled, and roughened the spikey, but soft fur of the animal’s head, just behind the ears, in affectionate strokes.
“See? You can be an artist. You’ll seem sad, tho.”
***
The undead remained still to the point the two living believed he was truly dead. But then, as they leaned in, they heard him mewling softly in the tufted ear. Promises of everything being better. Promises of everything returning normal. Promises that he will do anything to make it like it was.
The troll nodded towards the elf, which in turn placed a cold, metal hand on the scalp of the nigh-silently weeping undead. Magic accumulated in the air, collected in a bright beacon through the hair, and discharged in a blinding beam of light – incidently, that was the last the rotting man saw before his soul was finally released from the twisted aparathion of a former life. All that was left was greyed, smoldering ash, some of which nestled cosily into the non-moving fur, some blew into the indigo and gold, burning sky with the evening breeze.
Behind the deathly still tail of the once great protecter, a squirming puddle of fur and teeth waved and squeaked. They were now complete orphans, the entire litter of kittens.
The troll noticed soon, and one by one, seized and carefully laid them in soft clothing, to bring with him.
What had once been the height of natural serenity, had now become the graveyard of hope, motherhood and heroism.
== Hainricht Kastner ==
He thought he'd prepared.
Daily observations. Transcribed communications. Routine Observations. Lists of daily purchases. Known accomplices. Stacks of personal information. Combat observations. Former instructors. Training reports. Personal holdings. Days worth of potential personnel and materiel calculations, including personal armouries. Interpersonal relations with other Spine and former Apothecarium members. Recreational observations. Full medical and criminal records, both living and dead (where available). Ditto for all immediate ancestors and relations, living, un-living and deceased. Service history. Contents of assigned Undercity bank vaults. Full psychological evaluations where possible. Known aliases. Accurate profile sketches. Distinguishing characteristics. Complete, sourced and indexed records on every single one of them, present and former, un-living and dead. Multiple copies ready to be delivered at moment's notice to all major Horde-aligned military, paramilitary and associated mercenary forces at all times.
He swept the papers from his desk, turning to the others.
Plans for emergency neutralisation/retrieval/interrogation in event of defection to Alliance, Crusade, Argent, opposed Horde, Scourge, Demonic, various Forsaken/Alliance/Horde secessionist and miscellaneous opposed forces. Plans for short and long term investigation on suspicion of formerly listed offences. Plans for rapid detainment in event of revolutionary activity, and short and long term investigation of the former. Multiple contingencies for all foreseeable scenarios, no factor excluded. Cross referenced with all collected information.
It would have taken a mortal man years, perhaps a lifetime, of solid effort, painstaking observation and ruthless research to achieve. Night and day, Hainricht Kaster managed in little over one. Updating information weekly was nothing in comparison, consistent personal observation trivial. Those he hadn't tutored personally, he'd known since the beginning. Some even trusted him. It was an odd blessing, that the need for such a preparation had been blindingly obvious from his earliest days in the Apothecarium. Mentally unsound misfits, recidivists and egotistic demonologists with more faith in their infernal minions than the Forsaken, representatives of the Undercity? Trusted servants of the Dark Lady's will? To him, it was unthinkable. A disaster waiting to happen, inevitable, and the formation of the Spine from the ruins only worsened the rot.
And all his work had been for nought.
Such a contentious lot. Of course he'd assumed they'd break away individually, too prone to conflict for any kind of co-operation even within the Lady's service, they wouldn't stay together a day outside it. Not a scrap of loyalty in half of them, least of all to each other. One by one they'd see an opportunity and take it, and Kastner would be waiting. He knew where they would run, what they would do, how they would fight. Like adding two and two.
None could have imagined a coherent, large scale betrayal. Such wanton destruction, no reason or rhyme. Perhaps the mistake was assuming they each had an agenda, the useless deficits assigned to the Spine over the years. Unmotivated, unpredictable or just plain dangerous to a man, but they all seemed to have their own interests somewhere in mind. Now they were lashing out, mad dogs free of a leash. But like dogs they were sticking together. No one could have planned for this, not even Kastner.
It was Black's doing, he knew. Only one Forsaken was twisted enough to control and drive them towards such an end, like his sister before him. Kastner had always known, always foresaw. They'd brought Nathan Black into this world without any heed for his warnings. But he'd made sure the first thing the wretch had felt was sharpened steel to his throat, the first thing he saw his hard grey face, and the first sound a hissed promise. No one would have taken that from him, not after Felucia.
Hainricht wondered if he'd be blessed enough to make good of his words, and deliver the Plaguemaster a nice little reprise of his rebirth on the way out. Wishful thinking.
In truth, despite his years of planning, of calculations and deductions, he had no idea what was coming. He new only when. He'd not become so lost in artificial prescience he'd lost touch with the present. The old spy knew many tricks, and heard plenty of whispers. Tomorrow. Kastner looked to his timepiece, and wondered what would become of him a day from now.
Too long he'd plotted, succumbed to his own fantasies. He would wait no longer. His sword was sharp, his mind moreso. Steel throughout, cold and unyielding. A great end was upon him, his own or the traitors he had helped create. He would not see the former without the latter. The sun broke, and in the pale light of dawn the best laid plans of Hainricht Kastner burned in a dying hearth.