Moro’s loyal attendants, clad in skeletal masks and rubbery overalls, move through his laboratories like wraiths, executing their duties with grim and impassive precision. Silent and obedient, they toil under his impassive gaze, their every action dictated by the Master Fleshcrafter’s amoral curiosities. To outsiders, they are indistinguishable, their identities erased beneath the masks they wear and the horrors to which they are party.
Their duties span observation, reporting, and disposal. Each failed experiment, each mewling cluster of shattered flesh, is meticulously recorded before being incinerated with searing heat, ensuring no trace of imperfection taints Moro’s future work. Between burnings, they maintain his macabre equipment, harvest raw materials, and prepare subjects for the next round of grisly procedures. No matter the astringent chemicals they scrub themselves with, their hands are never clean, forever stained by the endless cycle of atrocity that defines their existence.
