The blood flowed from implantation wounds, drained through channels in the surgical bed to caches below. The smell of blood and offal hung in the air, competing with disinfectant and harsh chemical cleaners. This place was unlike any other aboard the Umbra Vos- bright light beamed overhead, illuminating the proceedings in a manner most different from the rest of the ship.

Here was where Astartes were created, repaired, and harvested from. The light, so shunned by the other Shrikeborn, was needed for the work for which the Harvestmaster and his assistants toiled. No lurking shadows or flickering glowglobes here, just pure light that showed every drop of blood, every exposed sinew, every genecrafted organ.

Vaelen Mordris, the Harvestmaster, worked with practiced haste. Scapel-tipped fingers tunneled into the body on the bed. Dross was cut out, imperfections documented and then removed. In their place, stiched and coaxed, the products of ancient gene-smithing was gently laid. If all went well, soon another brother would join the Shrikeborn and replace the dead Astartes whose progenoid he now carried.

The former Apothecary whispered quite instructions to his assistants, ordering them to close the wounds and dress them with healing bandages. The assistants barked in response; some sort of xenos-breed canid that had been "enhanced" by the madman Bile, they nonetheless were adept at minor surgical operations and were cheaper to acquire than trained sapients. 

Mordris moved to the other side of his chamber, to the other half of his duty as the Harvestmaster. Legionary Islis had been with the Shrikeborn for centuries, until a lucky las-blast had pierced his helm's protective eye lens. The servo-harness on Mordris' back moved swiftly to remove the ancient warplate, exposing a pale chest. The Harvestmaster thrust his hand into the dead's neck while the servo-claws cracked the fused ribcage. Seconds later, two dripping progenoid glands were placed in the vials hung on Mordris' belt. The dead Night Lord was removed and another young aspirant was drug into the bright chamber. Eyes wide, the young man struggled against the warriors holding him, his senses overwhelmed by the sights and smells. 

Vaelen Mordris smiled beneath his helm. "Don't worry. It will only hurt at the start."

Vaelen Mordris

Harvestmaster, Keeper of the Fallen

The challenge of creating new Astartes is not a matter of skill but of quality, and unfortunately of late, quantity. For every three implanted we may see one new brother rise up.

- Harvestmaster Vaelen Mordris

Among the Shrikeborn, there are few figures more quietly respected than Harvestmaster Vaelen Mordris. While others earn renown through battle, terror, or command, Mordris bears a different burden: ensuring that the warband's legacy survives each battle. He is the collector of the dead, the guardian of gene-seed, and the final custodian of fallen brothers.

Clad in midnight armor marked by generations of surgical inscriptions, Mordris moves through battle with an unsettling calm. Bolter fire and screaming victims scarcely seem to register in his thoughts. His focus lies elsewhere. Every dead Legionary is a duty. Every recovered progenoid is a victory greater than any battlefield conquest. To lose a brother is regrettable; to lose the gene-seed he carries is unforgivable.

Unlike many Apothecaries who have spent millennia amidst the madness of the Eye, Mordris has retained a startling degree of humanity. He knows the names of every fallen Shrikeborn whose gene-seed he has recovered. Their names are etched into his own skin, tattooed with ink made of the dead’s own ashes. Before every deployment, he reads them in silence. This reverence extends to the living. Wounded warriors often find Mordris lingering beside them after treatment, exchanging quiet words or recounting the deeds of comrades long dead. Many Shrikeborn have known him longer than they can remember. To younger Legionaries, he is a mentor. To veterans, he is one of the last links to the warband's past.

Yet beneath that compassion lies ruthless resolve. When a brother succumbs to mutation, madness, or the warp's predations, Mordris shows no hesitation. His judgement has ended the lives of countless fallen comrades; informing either the Grave-Ward or the Headsman of mutation or traitorous deeds. He performs this duty without anger or judgment, offering only a final prayer to the memory of the warrior they once were.

Vaelen Mordris is not merely an Apothecary. He is the keeper of the dead, the guardian of their future, and the last mercy many will ever know.