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There were many things about Soren that Osric didn’t understand.
First, Soren didn’t like parties. He didn’t even enjoy drinking. Osric was a proud man who believed that every accomplishment demanded a celebration at Windreach’s pub. After all, the bartender knew him by name, and all the locals would gather and cheer when Osric declared all drinks to be on the house. No matter how often Osric dragged him along, Soren never seemed to enjoy the celebrations. He’d scowl at the taste of ale, and would make a habit of discarding his drink in mysterious ways. Though Soren had many acquaintances—mostly due to Osric’s popularity and their desire to befriend his heir—their drunkenness annoyed him. No matter how much they jostled him around, he never quite gave in to their obnoxious singing and dancing.
It was no secret the boy had adopted Osric’s talent and natural instincts for hunting, but the way he approached danger was completely different.
In combat, Osric taught his son to act first and think later; too much hesitation could open you up to unnecessary danger. But Soren was more calculated and thoughtful than his father. Very rarely was he caught off guard, and he was sharp, so sharp that when they sparred, he was beginning to predict each of Osric’s moves before he made them. Soren wasn’t strong enough to beat his own father yet, but he was getting closer and closer with each age.
While Osric was expressive and boisterous, Soren was quiet and mostly kept to himself. His father got into squabbles all the time, his son wasn’t one to lash out, but he’d seethe silently and grind his teeth when agitated.
His son didn’t laugh much, but he’d always return a smile. Soren treated all with kindness, but he could be blunt. The bluntness was likely the only trait he’d adopted from his father.
Soren was more eloquent and introspective than Osric was, which was likely due to his mother pleading for Osric to give him at least the minimum education that Windreach had to offer. Of course, Osric went through with it, and now his son spoke like his mother too.
His son’s behavior confused him, as Soren was so much like his mother despite never having known her. Soren was the spitting image of Osric’s younger self, but sometimes, when Osric met his eye, he could see the shine that his mother used to have. Or when Osric would tell a joke, he’d catch his son shaking his head and cracking a smile the same way his wife used to. It was bittersweet. There were moments when that resemblance felt like a cruel joke—when Osric couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment. He hated himself for it, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface. The boy he’d raised for 18 years had possibly caused the death of his one true love, and now he acted just like her. Was it the gods’ way of torturing him, or blessing him? Osric wrestled with that question every day, struggling to make sense of the emotions that churned inside him. But in the end, Soren was still his son. The strange boy carried his blood. How could he not love his own son?