Bumbler
Born W. Norris, a Remnant servant in the household of a Pureblood family called Walton, the child who would become Bumbler earned their nickname the day they dropped a cup while serving a Pureblood. Rather than resent the name, Bumbler accepted it as a sign of belonging, a small piece of identity in a place where Remnants were given very little.
Bumbler found purpose in medicine. Working alongside local doctors and medics, they discovered a genuine satisfaction in stitching people back together, in the simple act of making someone hurt less. When wounds came in, Bumbler treated them without asking how they were inflicted. When the Iron Works hired Graverobbers and the Walton family offered Bumbler's services as an assistant, Bumbler went happily. The infection-enhancement work looked, from a certain angle, like helping: increasing resilience, guiding people through the Mortis Amaranthine, making them harder to kill. Bumbler chose that angle and held to it. The slavery, the forced procedures, the screaming from rooms Bumbler never entered; all of it was simply life in the Iron Works, nothing to dwell on.
The Uprising fighters who burst in while the Graverobbers were away did not see a kind soul with a tray of bandages. They saw a collaborator. They shot Bumbler dead and watched the bleeding out. In the Mortis Amaranthine, Bumbler was bewildered and wounded by the violence, unable to comprehend why anyone would kill someone who was only trying to help. The possibility that helping the wrong people was its own form of harm had never crossed Bumbler's mind, and death had not changed that.
Bumbler found purpose in medicine. Working alongside local doctors and medics, they discovered a genuine satisfaction in stitching people back together, in the simple act of making someone hurt less. When wounds came in, Bumbler treated them without asking how they were inflicted. When the Iron Works hired Graverobbers and the Walton family offered Bumbler's services as an assistant, Bumbler went happily. The infection-enhancement work looked, from a certain angle, like helping: increasing resilience, guiding people through the Mortis Amaranthine, making them harder to kill. Bumbler chose that angle and held to it. The slavery, the forced procedures, the screaming from rooms Bumbler never entered; all of it was simply life in the Iron Works, nothing to dwell on.
The Uprising fighters who burst in while the Graverobbers were away did not see a kind soul with a tray of bandages. They saw a collaborator. They shot Bumbler dead and watched the bleeding out. In the Mortis Amaranthine, Bumbler was bewildered and wounded by the violence, unable to comprehend why anyone would kill someone who was only trying to help. The possibility that helping the wrong people was its own form of harm had never crossed Bumbler's mind, and death had not changed that.
Children
