(Just a quick blurb on Vourger, a forger of old kaon before the purge. Thoroughly inspired by @quibble-auk's whole lore and project, which ahem maybe this is alright. It was for fun mostly and its just me yapping. I needed to try and just write something hehehe.)
Hot and molten, rimmed with fire and artistry.
Vourger was better than most forgers on leaving their dens. Leaving the well of sparks, while not unlidded and unprotected, but without himself to watch over them. He however trusted the forgers he left behind him and the gates, with something greater than his own spark, those of the unborn.
His work was his soul, the sparks were his duty, the armor he forged from the sparks that called, where his bones. So as the forges and its heat left him, he allowed his optics to trace the other half of his work.
Beyond the heavy gates and passageways was the other side of the coin, the Born.
They parted ways for him as he strode, broad shoulders back and finned helm high with pride. Armor blackened and scorched from his art, the Forger walked through the halls of the pits. Some gladiators lowered their optics ever so slightly, flickering over him but not baring their well sculpted fangs in challenge.
Respect, not timid but not jaw breaking, sat within the set of their shoulders and eyes. Unlike the handlers who hardly gained the respect of the gladiators, Vourger had earned it before they were even forged. Some of his own creations glanced up at him as he passed, he knew every part of them well enough to recognise them even if they themselves did not move to greet him.
Gladiators knew the faces of their makers as much as any other mech would, the first face to greet them in their lives. The one who honed them as they grew, designed every upgrade and frame piece to make them perfect. Prideful creatures at heart they couldn't help but hold a glimmer of respect for the very mech who created them, gave them some sort of ground for their magnificence and brutality.
Vourger did not smile or wave to his mechs, though he did look them over. Molten optics ticking across their slick frames and bright colors, none of his models clashing or too delicate. They were fighters, not servants. But beauty was still there, what forger could give a gladiator an ugly frame to debut in? To stride and puff up their wiles and teeth in.
Vourger’s mechs were notably sturdy, his style of simple shapes hiding well thought out structures within. He gave them the best he could, every frame his pride and heart. He drew every upgrade and planned every detail for them, so they could thrive.
Strength in every joint, armor configurations slick but still functional enough for their sport. He knew where the plating should thin and where it should deepen. An art of measurements and calculations to make his gladiator's movements smooth and deadly.
When the sparks are done with their initial forging he allowed himself a few days with the sparklings, checking every node and circuit for discomfort or flaw. The Born would have a datapad of sketches and notes dedicated to them, from the moment they open their eyes he knows vaguely how they will look once they reach the arena and begin their purpose. Their adult faces in his sketches long ago.
Delighting crowds and detailing deaths.
Vourger in his smaller less titan like build, watched his younger mechs softly nod or ignore him completely. Gladiators once allowed to fight and gain the love of the crowds chose one of the two reactions to him, as it should be.
The eldest of his creations seemed more inclined to nod, firmly safe in the pecking order of the pitborn and unafraid to acknowledge their forger for fear of wounded pride.
Vourger knew all their old quirks and childish ways, some had been brutal thrill seeking sparklings. Climbing him when he had visited and perching on his shoulders to claim they were kings, others were of a quieter sort.
Vourger felt a warmth throb in his heavily plated chest at the sight of his creation who fit such a description. Midnight and fast, brutal and belly ripping. But also sly, it quirked his lips at the view of Dropmix perched on a high wall. Watching and face passive.
As a child the mech had been sleepy and grumpy, curled in the forger’s lap demanding attention and a place to rest. He of course still did bite and scratch, climb his maker and demand the others look at his accomplishment. But those yellow eyes were deeper than just the pride, he had the makings of a smart mech. Subtle ways of gaining attention from the forger when he had slipped in amongst his sparklings to sketch and check on them.
Then Dropmix would be blunt, crawling over his forger’s knees and letting out a soft noise. Bright optics glittering with a craving for attention, those oversized claws batting at Vourger’s illuminated sensors. Those bright giggles when the forger would flare his canal lights and allow the bright golden glow to melt and wash over his creations. The other children took it as a challenge, some chasing the lights. Dropmix had watched for a moment before heading for the source of the glow. Pawing at Vourger’s chest and standing, glaring at the canal under his smaller hand.
“I want it.” Small voice firm and demanding, clawing digging deep.
“You do have it.” Vourger knew he was too fond of the mechlet, of those snappy optics and harsh shoves. He would admit it to very few, he loved all his children. But Dropmix was a child who held his spark in a way most could not.
The child had growled and shoved his claws deep then, in response Vourger had snatched him by the neck and pinned him with a large hand. Blunt fingers pressed into the child’s neck, and started to gently tap.
Vourger now looked over his creation for a moment, that slow pride welling up in his chest. He cradled the feeling for a moment, before walking again. Dropmix glanced up from his perch watching the forger continue past him, those two pairs of golden eyes met for a moment.
The exchange of glances was not tender, neither mech was in the position to feel such things, Dropmix still in the age where his maker was seen as embarrassing and a reminder of his sparklinghood. A time of fumbling and a flesh ripping craving for love and attention.
He had the crowd now, the screaming of the stadium and the adoration of the few with their rounded armor. Dropmix did however meet the gaze, and couldn’t help the old warmth the forger’s molten optics gave him.
