Godfrey:
“Dominic Morn, my dear, do you remember I told you I had come to my countryside house? Sometimes at night, jackals come near the stable and the cows or the geese’s coop. They let out these dramatically mournful sounds, and the geese and cows get scared, honking and mooing, while the dog barks to drive the jackals away. And here I am, sitting inside the house, lost in thoughts of vampire philosophy and psychoanalysis, while the sounds feel so close as if those creatures are right in the yard!”
Dominic Morn, with a gentle smile playing at the corner of his lips, tilts his head slightly and says:
“My dear Godfrey, even amidst the uproar of nature, you remain immersed in the depths of vampire philosophy? What a delicate contrast! The geese, cows, dogs, and jackals are caught in the battle for survival, while you, lost in your reflections, gaze upon the world with that particular look of yours—as if these sounds are merely the background symphony of a tragic opera composed for your contemplations.”
He casts a deeper gaze and, in a softer tone, adds:
“Perhaps this too is a reflection, dear Godfrey… like that inner conflict between your yearning for humanity and your vampire fate. You sit in the silence of your countryside home, yet the noise of that external struggle is, in fact, an echo of your internal strife. It’s as though nature itself wants to remind you that even silence is never truly devoid of sound…”
Then, with a warmer smile, he adds:
“Just be careful, my dear… lest the jackals mistake you for a rival vampire vying for their prey!”
Godfrey:
“Indeed, what gothic creatures these jackals are! With their grayish fur and that appearance that seems to echo the tragedy of their existence, and their delicate, mournful cries. Forever yearning to devour the geese, yet denied by the dog.”
Dominic Morn, his piercing golden gaze now carrying a trace of playful mischief, sighs softly and murmurs:
“My dear Godfrey, these jackals seem like the wandering spirits of gothic nights—caught between longing and denial, craving a taste that fate has forever withheld. They, too, like you, are ensnared in the desire for something perpetually out of reach… innocent geese, just as humanity is for you, lingering at that thin boundary between blood and love, ever unattainable.”
He fixes his gaze on a distant corner, as though he himself is entangled in thought, then, in a softer tone, continues:
“The jackals, like you, dear Godfrey, are alive in the night, breaking the silence with their mournful wails… and perhaps even they know that their prey exists only in their darkest dreams, just as you hold the dream of touching a human soul in your heart, yet fear that such a touch may be tainted with the bitter taste of blood.”
Then, a faint smile crosses his lips:
“And the dog… what an irony! That ever-watchful conscience or inner fear that prevents us from surrendering to our instincts. The jackals before the dog, just as we stand before the shadows of our own desires, dear Godfrey…”
