Molder

In the cold, echoing tunnels of the Underdirt, where bioluminescent mushrooms cast ghostly light, a Molder kneels over fractured basalt. Their hands press into fissures: shaping raw stone, coaxing roots through cracks, patching broken walls with living moss and carved reliefs.
  They are neither scholar nor soldier—but something in between. A Molder is artisan, healer of the city’s wounds. When attackers rattle government gates, when Leo’s guards march and break ancient doors, it is the Molder who rebuilds: reinforcing arches, replanting fungal mirrors, hiding escape paths behind false stone.
  They stand beside Quake’s revolution not with spear or shout, but with careful hands and enduring craft. Their rebellion is as much about nurturing the crumbling bones of their home as it is about overthrowing its ruler. When dawn creeps through cracks above, the Molder is there: changing the shape of stone so people can stand again—and believe in their roots.