Ozzy scowled with frustration, kicking the table before collapsing backwards into one of the many vintage armchairs his father decorated the mansion with. The walls of the mansion held a lot of memories from his childhood. These days, with four hobbies, his perspective of home morphed drastically. The thirty year old had too much on his mind to think clearly or concisely.
His body shutting down from (what even he considered to be) a lack of sleep. Despite the imminent strike of 12, his mind fought to keep him from teetering on his feet. His mind raced; making mental to do lists for his various hobbies and clients. He was a violinist, warlock, tailor and alchemist.
A balanced combination of interests with transferable skills, in my opinion. He self-reflected.
His body pushed to the brink with calloused, but dexterous fingers; delivering pain and pleasure. His mind, sharper than a blade from studying texts and languages. Married by experience and instinct.
He was a goblin that teetered on the mental precipice between certain sanity and insanity. This visit to his father was supposed to provide a reprieve from the rat race of a square of nomadic careers. His eyelids grew heavy. His ears perked to a familiar shuffle from the corner of the room. Ozzy raised his hand to massage the wrinkles from his brow. His skin was too wrinkled for his age.
You must be imagining things. There is nothing there. See?
The recluse examined the bookshelves while conversing with himself.
He might have been no more than 30 years of age, but on days like today he felt decades older than his middle-aged father. His father, Vander, was a jovial goblin who would do typical father things like summon armchairs, walking canes and top hats from thin air and embarrass his son while he had friends over. Not that he blamed him after his father's unfortunate encounter with a cursed amulet. The older goblin was doing his best to compensate for lost time. Ozzy had no idea where his old man mustered his boundless enthusiasm and energy from.
Probably something to do with his dabbles into arcane magic.
Ozzy rubbed sleep from his eyes with a loosely balled fist. His eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. How much time had passed? He had forgotten to light a lantern. He decided to lay back and let his mind wander until he was dragged into unconsciousness. He was safe in his room. Secure. Contented. Surrounded by tomes on all the information his academic mind could hope to devour.
He preferred solitude. Ironic given his passions for alchemy, tailoring and perfecting the violin. Goblins were a fascinating race to study. His father owned a four-story mansion in a highbrow-society.
His nose alerted to the unmistakable fragrance of warm tea accompanied by a side of sweet pastries.
"What is this all for?" He asked, his father emerging from the shadows. "You have servants for this sort of stuff."
"It's a welcome home offering. You've been away for a long time. Can't I do something nice for my own son?"
He heard the sincerity in his father's apologetic tone.
"You don't have to." Ozzy replied, rolling back his sleeves as he looked over the tray.
"I, Lord Vander Springsprocket, don't have to! You are absolutely right." The older goblin narrated while his hands gestured theatrically. "However, I do it because I care. I know we don't seem like it sometimes, but we are family."
"Dad...You don't…" Ozzy trailed off. There was no use arguing with his father. "...You don't need to apologize for anything. I'm content to sit here and keep myself entertained for hours on end."
Sometimes, it was the simple things that meant the most.
Regardless of his own feelings, he entertained his father's attempts to leave an impression.
He sat and listened to his father. While not much was being said, the older goblin had a way with words that had Ozzy hanging off every word. His own thoughts scattering as he lent his chin on one hand and listened intently. His father continued to posture with a booming voice.
His father, Vander, adored the attention. He was an extrovert, who did not empathize with his son's introverted mindset. Though he understood the value of solitude for one's sanity. He appreciated that even at this age, he was still his son's hero. Due to the high-society status of their family, they did not have time to sit and talk one on one. It was all small-talk and business exchanges between various races from all over the was corsets and pastry-looking dresses for women and top hats and walking canes for the men. With the proper etiquette to prevent conflicts of interest.
Ozzy found himself laughing until the wee hours. Sharing the pastries and tea with his father. Both of them drunk on nostalgia. Laughing at the portraits and furniture for no reason other than the fact that they could, until their eyes watered and their ribs ached.
Smelling of the eloquent fragrance of tea, Ozzy staggered out, leaving Vander to his own devices. Bloated, wiping crumbs off his lapel and cheeks. He changed into his night clothes, feeling as if he had unlocked the meaning of enlightenment. He climbed into bed, feeling like a child again. A warm, fuzzy glow engulfed him as he settled beneath the duvet. He looked forward to being torn away from his studies tomorrow for more father-son bonding time. He knew his father that well. It was inevitable.
Ozzy's brain recalling everything they talked about. The further he strayed from his father, the closer he felt to his father. He was looking forward to taking time off his business to revel in personal improvement. Inspired to compose his own melody for his violin performances. He had a bucket list of books he had been meaning to read for as long as he could remember. Perhaps he could convince his father to join him in the library for a reading and discussion? He drifted off the moment his head hit the pillow.