Darkness. The sound of trickling water and birdsong.
A young woman begins to speak - Arabelle as an adult.
ARABELLE (Adult): “When the mists finally broke, I thought the silence would comfort me.
But Barovia remembers — and so do I.”
“Ten years have passed since the night the sky cracked open and the dead marched toward their reckoning. I was a child then… or something wearing the shape of one. Now the valley breathes again, and I have learned what it means to breathe with it.”
“This is the story of what became of us — the heroes who rose, the shadows that lingered, and the futures we carried forward.”
Background Music: Fabomusic - Out of the Mists
EPILOGUE — “BAROVIA BREATHES”
EXT. - VILLAGE OF BEREZ - MIDDAY SUN
A bustling town square. Children run. Vendors shout. Music drifts from windows.
Berez lives. The mists are gone.
INT. BEREZ COMMUNITY HALL — CONTINUOUS
ARABELLE, now twenty-two, radiant with quiet power, sits cross‑legged before a circle of children. She finishes the tale of Strahd’s fall.
The children lean forward, breathless.
Among them:
A tall, serious black‑haired girl, her younger brother beside her, built like a wall.
A half‑elf girl with Ismark’s blond curls.
A dusky‑skinned boy conjuring a flame, then snuffing it.
A red‑haired boy already plotting mischief.
CHILDREN: “Aunty Arabelle! One more story!”
Arabelle smiles — but rises.
A handsome TRALADARAN MAN enters, carrying her witch’s hat and ceremonial broom.
TRALADARAN MAN: “It’s time for the ceremony, Townmistress.”
She takes his hand.
EXT. BEREZ SQUARE — MOMENTS LATER
A crowd gathers around a veiled statue.
Arabelle and her beloved step forward. The veil drops.
The statue depicts the heroes as they were the day they defeated Strahd:
Fleetwood, sword raised.
Clarion, Holy Symbol blazing.
Ezmerelda, crossbow ready.
Felonious, staff in hand, dragonet perched.
Silverleaf, bow drawn.
Greegan, sabers gleaming.
Arabelle, butterflies swirling.
Ireena, Sun Sword aloft.
Sasha, unveiled, eyes open to the light.
The crowd erupts in cheers.
Arabelle looks up — not at the past, but the future.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Barovia was once a land of endings. But endings are only beginnings wearing heavier clothes.”
EXT. TSER POOL — DAWN
🌒 Scene: The Vistani Mourn, and the Mists Call Again
The camera opens on Tser Pool at dawn. Mist curls low over the water, catching the pale light like breath on glass. The Vistani stand in a wide circle around a small pyre of candles and colored ribbons — Madame Eva’s colors. No one speaks. Even the horses are still.
A single violin begins to play — thin, trembling, beautiful.
The Vistani bow their heads.
A few weep openly. Others press hands to their hearts. A child places a final ribbon on the water, and it drifts away like a memory too fragile to hold.
Then, slowly, the caravan begins to move.
Wagons creak. Lanterns sway. Wheels roll through the mud with the familiar rhythm of a people returning to the only life they’ve ever known: plying the Mists, wandering the borders of the world, carrying stories and warnings and songs.
But not all of them go.
🌘 Ezmerelda and Felonious
Ezmerelda stands at the edge of the pool, watching the last wagon vanish into the trees. Her jaw is set, but her eyes soften as Felonious steps beside her.
Without looking, her hand finds his.
He squeezes once — steady, grounding.
Cut to:
The two of them walking toward Van Richten’s Tower, its silhouette stark against the morning sky. The door hangs crooked. The stones are cracked. The place looks like it’s been waiting for someone to claim it.
Felonious stops in the doorway, surveying the ruin.
FELONIOUS: “A coat of paint… a few throw pillows… this could be… home.”
Ezmerelda’s smile is small, but real — the kind she never let herself have before.
Time lapse:
The tower’s broken windows replaced.
Bookshelves rising from dust.
A repaired staircase.
A fire lit in the hearth.
Two mugs on a table.
A crib. The name “Erasmus” etched in it.
A child’s drawings pinned to the wall.
Ezmerelda teaching someone to throw a dagger.
Felonious reading aloud by lamplight.
A family.
The ruin becomes a refuge.
The refuge becomes a home.
🌑 Arabelle in Berez
Cut to twelve‑year‑old Arabelle, walking alone through the drowned ruins of Berez. Her steps are quiet, but the land listens.
Where she walks, plants bloom — shy at first, then bold.
Where she breathes, birds begin to sing.
Where she looks, the fog thins.
She approaches the Swamp Fane, its stones half‑sunken, its altar cracked. She lays a hand on the stone.
The earth shivers.
Time lapse:
Vines reclaiming broken walls.
Water receding.
Foundations rising.
A bridge rebuilt.
Lanterns lit.
People returning.
A market square forming.
A cottage at the center — warm, crooked, herb‑hung — the home of a non‑evil witch, a guardian rather than a curse.
Berez reborn.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“The Vistani returned to the roads. But some roads lead to rest, not wandering.”
EXT. RADLEBB WOODS — DUSK
Scene: The Calarii Discover the Dusk Elf Hovels
The Radlebb Woods breathe in slow, mist‑laden sighs as dawn filters through the canopy. Pale gold light spills across moss‑covered roots and the silver‑barked trunks of ancient trees. A small band of Calarii elves moves with the silence of snowfall — cloaks drawn, bows unstrung, eyes sharp with the instinct of a people who have survived centuries by listening to the forest’s warnings.
They follow a trail the woods have only recently revealed: a path of half‑buried stones, overgrown but unmistakably shaped by elven hands long ago.
The trees thin.
And there — tucked into a hollow between two ridges — lie the Dusk Elf hovels.
Low, curved roofs of dark timber. Carvings half‑erased by time. Hearths long cold. A settlement built for a people who lived in shadow and silence, and who died the same way.
The Calarii halt.
One of them — an elder with hair like winter sunlight — steps forward and touches a carved lintel. His breath catches. The pattern is familiar. Not identical to their own… but close enough to ache.
A door creaks open.
A handful of Dusk Elf survivors emerge — thin, wary, their eyes carrying the memory of centuries of grief. They do not raise weapons. They simply stand, as if unsure whether the forest has finally brought them kin… or another ending.
The Calarii bow first.
A gesture of recognition. Of mourning. Of welcome.
The Dusk Elves bow in return.
The forest exhales.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Even the elves remembered themselves again.”
🌕 Scene: Ithuriel Returns to Pandius
Pandius rises like a dream carved from dawnlight — a city of marble spires and floating terraces suspended above the silver sea of the Astral. Its towers shimmer with colors no mortal sky has ever held. Celestial bridges arc between them like ribbons of sunlight caught in a breeze.
And then — a ripple.
A tremor of recognition.
A figure descends through the upper radiance, wings spread wide, each feather burning with the cold, immaculate brilliance of truth remembered. Ithuriel’s armor gleams with the light of a sun that has forgiven him. His silhouette cuts through the heavens like a returning star.
The Devas gather first.
They appear in concentric circles — beings of light and memory, their forms shifting between humanoid and radiant. Some gasp. Some bow. Some simply stare, as if afraid he might vanish again.
One steps forward — a Deva with eyes like molten gold.
DEVA: “Brother… you found your way home.”
Ithuriel lands upon the marble dais. His wings fold slowly, reverently. His gaze lifts.
A second ripple moves through the air — deeper, older, like the first breath of creation.
Ixion appears.
Not as a man, nor as a sun, but as a towering figure of incandescent fire wrapped in the shape of divinity. His presence bends the light around him. His voice is the warmth of dawn and the judgment of noon.
IXION: “Ithuriel. My Morning Star. You return not as the fallen… but as the risen.”
Ithuriel kneels — not in shame, but in completion.
ITHURIEL: “I remember who I am.”
Ixion places a hand of living flame upon his brow. The fire does not burn — it restores.
A chorus rises from the Devas — a harmony that shakes the sky. The marble beneath them glows. The air fills with motes of gold.
Ithuriel rises, whole.
The city of Pandius shines brighter.
🌒 Arabelle (VO)
“Some stories end in death. Some in victory. But Ithuriel’s ended in remembrance — the kind that heals the world it touches.”
CUT TO:
EXT. ABBEY OF ST. MARKOVIA — MORNING
🌒 Scene: Atan Becomes Abbot of St. Markovia
The Abbey courtyard is quiet in the early morning. Mist clings to the stones like memory. A small gathering stands beneath the broken archway — Clarion, Fleetwood, Felonious, Ezmerelda, a few villagers, and the remnants of the mongrelfolk. Vasilka stands at the edge of the crowd, hands folded, posture perfect, eyes soft.
Atan steps forward.
He wears simple robes — white linen, unadorned — but the way he carries them makes them feel like vestments. His hair is tied back. His hands tremble only once, and then steady.
Clarion places a hand on his shoulder.
CLARION: “The Abbey needs a healer. Not a warrior. Not a martyr. You.”
Atan bows his head. The morning light catches his face, and for a moment he looks like the first sunrise the Abbey has seen in a century.
A villager steps forward with a circlet of woven silver branches — humble, imperfect, beautiful. Clarion lifts it, and with a breath that feels like a prayer, places it upon Atan’s brow.
CLARION: “Atan of Krezk… Abbot of St. Markovia.”
The bells — long silent — ring once.
The sound echoes through the valley like a heartbeat restarting.
🌘 Time Lapse: The Abbey Heals
The broken doors are repaired.
The shattered windows replaced with colored glass.
The asylum hall scrubbed clean, its chains removed.
Gardens planted where the mongrelfolk once huddled.
A hospice wing built from the old cells.
Pilgrims arriving.
Children laughing in the courtyard.
Atan tending wounds, blessing newborns, teaching apprentices.
Vasilka remains — not as a patient, not as a creation, but as a keeper of the grounds. She moves with quiet purpose, learning gentleness one gesture at a time. The flesh golem stays too, now a gardener, humming tunelessly as he tends the roses.
The Abbey becomes a place of healing again — slowly, stubbornly, beautifully.
🌑 The Mongrelfolk Choose Their Paths
A time‑lapse montage:
Some mongrelfolk walk down the mountain road toward Krezk, shedding their old wrappings, learning to speak their names again.
Others run into the forest on four legs, feathers, or fur — choosing the freedom of the wild, the lives their bodies remember.
A few remain at the Abbey, helping Atan rebuild, finding peace in service.
Each choice is honored.
Each path is theirs.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Broken places mend, if tended with gentle hands.”
CUT TO:
Scene: The Return to Argynvostholt
Argynvostholt rises through the morning mist like the skeleton of a dream — broken towers, shattered battlements, the great hall still scarred by fire and grief. But the air feels different now. Lighter. Expectant.
Fleetwood and Clarion ride at the head of a small company of Knights of Karameikos, Fleetwood’s old comrades. Their armor bears the sunburst of the kingdom, but their faces carry the reverence of pilgrims. They dismount in silence, boots crunching on frost‑rimmed stone.
The great doors groan open.
Inside, the ruined halls echo with memories — the last stand of the Silver Dragon, the fall of noble hearts, the long years of restless spirits. Clarion’s hand brushes Fleetwood’s, grounding him. He nods once, steady.
They climb the winding stairs toward the beacon tower.
The higher they go, the brighter the air becomes — as if the light remembers them.
🌘 The Silver Egg
At the top of the tower, the beacon platform lies open to the sky. The wind carries the scent of pine and distant snow.
And there, standing before the cold, dormant beacon, is a giant silver egg.
Its surface is smooth as moonlight, veined with faint lines of pale fire. It hums — softly, like a heartbeat learning its rhythm.
Clarion stops. Her breath catches.
CLARION (whispering): “It’s alive…”
Fleetwood steps forward, awe softening every line of his face. He reaches out, hands steady despite the tremor in his chest, and lifts the egg. It is warm — impossibly warm — as if holding a piece of dawn.
He turns it toward the light.
Inside, something moves — a small, coiled shape, wings folded tight, tail curled around itself like a sleeping ember.
Clarion’s eyes widen, tears gathering.
CLARION: “Ohh…”
The Knights behind them fall to their knees, not in fear, but in reverence. The wind shifts, carrying a low, distant rumble — not thunder, but something older.
A promise.
🌒 Scene: Argynvostholt Reborn
The camera opens on the shattered courtyard of Argynvostholt. Wind sighs through broken stone. The great statue of the Silver Dragon lies cracked, wings half‑buried in rubble. Fleetwood and Clarion stand at the threshold, the silver egg cradled between them like a fragile star.
Behind them, Knights of Karameikos — Fleetwood’s old brothers‑in‑arms — remove their helms. Their faces soften. They bow their heads.
The screen fades into a time‑lapse.
🌘 Time Lapse: From Ruin to Living Castle
Stonemasons rebuild the outer walls, sunlight glinting off new mortar.
Knights raise banners bearing the silver dragon sigil — the first time it has flown in centuries.
Carpenters restore the great hall, replacing charred beams with polished timber.
Clarion stands in the chapel, lighting the first candle. The flame catches, then multiplies, filling the room with warm gold.
Fleetwood trains new recruits in the courtyard, his movements precise, patient, proud.
The silver egg rests in a cradle of woven mithral, tended by both of them.
The castle breathes again.
🌑 The Children of Argynvostholt
The time‑lapse slows.
Clarion stands in the restored solar, sunlight pouring through stained glass. In her arms is a newborn wrapped in silver‑embroidered cloth.
Her voice is soft, reverent.
CLARION: “Carillon.”
Fleetwood steps beside her, awe in his eyes. He touches the baby’s cheek with a knight’s gentleness.
The time‑lapse resumes.
Carillon takes her first steps in the courtyard.
She toddles after Fleetwood’s cloak.
Clarion lifts her to touch the silver dragon banner.
Knights bow as she passes, smiling.
Years pass.
Clarion stands again in the solar, holding another infant — this one with Fleetwood’s dark hair and Clarion’s fierce eyes.
CLARION: “Peregrine.”
Fleetwood laughs — a sound Argynvostholt has not heard in centuries.
The children grow:
Carillon practices sword forms with a wooden blade.
Peregrine chases ravens along the battlements.
Clarion teaches them prayers of light.
Fleetwood teaches them honor.
The castle is no longer haunted.
It is alive.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“The Order of the Silver Dragon rose again — not from fire, but from family.”
CUT TO:
Scene: Greegan & Ireena Across the Known World
A montage begins — fast, bright, full of motion.
Greegan and Ireena racing across the rooftops of Specularum, laughing as guards shout behind them.
The two of them standing on the cliffs of Soderfjord, wind whipping Ireena’s red hair like a banner.
Greegan cheating at cards in a tavern in Darokin, Ireena kicking his chair when he gets caught.
Riding camels across the Emirates of Ylaruam, sharing a waterskin and a kiss under a burning sky.
Fighting back‑to‑back in the Broken Lands, blades flashing, eyes bright with adrenaline and trust.
Sailing the Sea of Dread, Greegan at the rigging, Ireena at the helm, both shouting into the storm.
Walking hand‑in‑hand through the Canolbarth Forest, where the elves nod to them with quiet respect.
They live loudly. They live fiercely. They live freely.
And then — the montage slows.
They stand before a familiar wooden sign swinging in the breeze:
THE JUGGLING OGRE TAVERN
Threshold.
Home.
🌘 The Wedding at the Juggling Ogre
Inside, the tavern is packed. Rogues, rangers, old friends, new allies — all crammed together, mugs raised, chairs wobbling, someone already drunk under a table. Lanterns glow warm. The air smells of ale, woodsmoke, and joy.
Clarion stands at the front, wearing her cleric’s vestments but with her sleeves rolled up. She looks equal parts holy and exasperated.
Greegan and Ireena stand before her — no dress, no suit, no flowers. Just them.
Ireena’s hair is braided with a single silver ribbon.
Greegan’s shirt is only mostly clean.
Clarion clears her throat.
CLARION: “If anyone objects to this union—”
The tavern door slams open.
A tall, cloaked, shadowy figure fills the doorway.
Everyone freezes.
Clarion’s hand goes to her mace.
Greegan’s hand goes to his dagger.
Ireena’s hand goes to Greegan’s wrist.
The figure steps forward.
And throws back his hood.
It’s Fleetwood.
Carrying a large, awkwardly wrapped bundle.
FLEETWOOD: “Sorry I’m late. I brought a gift.”
The entire tavern erupts in laughter. Clarion rolls her eyes.
CLARION: “As I was saying — if anyone objects, keep it to yourself.”
The ceremony continues.
Greegan and Ireena exchange vows — simple, honest, whispered.
They kiss.
The tavern explodes into cheers.
No chapel.
No dress.
No cake.
Just love.
Just life.
Just them.
🌑 Time Lapse: Their Family Begins
The montage resumes:
Greegan teaching Ireena how to throw a dagger blindfolded.
Ireena teaching Greegan how to dance without stepping on her feet.
The two of them returning to Threshold again and again — always to the Juggling Ogre.
A small room above the tavern becoming theirs.
A cradle.
A tiny hand gripping Greegan’s finger.
A baby with bright red hair, laughing as Ireena lifts him into the air.
IREENA: “Kolyan.”
Greegan kisses her forehead.
The child giggles — a sound like sunlight on steel.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Some heroes choose thrones. Others choose taverns. Both choices can save a world.”
CUT TO:
EXT. BAROVIA VILLAGE — DAY
🌒 Scene: Ismark & Izek Meet
The Village of Barovia lies quiet under a pale morning sky. Smoke curls from chimneys. Merchants set out their wares. Children chase each other between the wells and the old gallows tree — laughter returning to a place that had forgotten the sound.
Ismark waits near the rebuilt fountain, cloak drawn tight, fingers tapping the pommel of his sword. He looks like a man preparing for a battle he doesn’t want to fight.
Footsteps approach.
Izek Strazni emerges from the mist — taller than memory, shoulders tense, massive prosthetic claw strapped across his back. His eyes flicker, uncertain. He stops a few paces away.
For a long moment, neither speaks.
Then Ismark exhales.
ISMARK: “I… wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Izek shrugs, awkward.
IZEK: “Didn’t know if I should.”
Silence again. A heartbeat. Two.
Ismark steps forward.
ISMARK: “You’re my brother.”
Izek freezes — as if the word itself is a spell.
Ismark places a hand on his shoulder.
ISMARK: “Whatever else happened… whatever we lost… you’re still Ireena’s brother. That makes you my brother.”
Izek’s breath shudders. His good hand rises, hesitant, then grips Ismark’s arm.
IZEK (quietly): “I… like the sound of that.”
They embrace — stiff at first, then fiercely, like men who have spent their whole lives alone without realizing it.
The village watches. And smiles.
🌘 Time Lapse: Barovia Village Lives Again
A montage begins:
Merchants open stalls along the main road.
Children run through the square, ribbons in their hair.
The Blood of the Vine tavern fills with music again.
Izek helps rebuild the guard barracks, laughing — actually laughing — with the younger recruits.
Ismark oversees trade caravans arriving from Kelven, shaking hands with merchants who once feared the valley.
Silverleaf tends a garden behind the Burgomaster’s mansion, sunlight catching in her hair.
The village breathes.
The village heals.
The village lives.
🌑 The Birth of Their Daughter
The montage slows.
Inside the Burgomaster’s home, Silverleaf sits in a sun‑lit chair, cradling a newborn wrapped in soft green cloth. Her features glow with exhaustion and joy. Ismark kneels beside her, eyes shining.
The party and their old allies gather around — Clarion, Fleetwood, Ezmerelda, Felonious, Arabelle, even Atan and Vasilka. Kasimir Velikov stands quietly near the back, hands clasped, eyes soft.
Silverleaf lifts the child slightly.
SILVERLEAF: “Her name is Patrina. It’s a family name.”
She looks directly at Kasimir.
A long, quiet beat.
Kasimir steps forward, voice low but steady.
KASIMIR: “And one that she will bring honor to.”
Silverleaf smiles — warm, forgiving, resolute.
Kasimir bows his head, a single tear slipping down his cheek.
The baby coos.
The room fills with light.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Even old wounds found ways to heal.”
EXT. AMBER TEMPLE — HIGH PEAKS — TWILIGHT
A lonely blizzard sweeps across the mountaintop.
The Amber Temple stands half‑buried in snow, its once‑terrifying façade cracked, quiet, and strangely peaceful.
The camera glides through the shattered doors.
INT. AMBER TEMPLE — CONTINUOUS
The great hall lies in ruins.
Amber sarcophagi stand empty — their dark gifts gone, their whispers silenced.
A faint golden light pulses from deep within the catacombs.
The camera descends.
INT. VESTIGE CHAMBER — CONTINUOUS
The vast amber blocks — once prisons for ancient, hungry powers — now lie fractured, their interiors hollow, their shadows gone.
A single white moth flutters through the chamber, lands on the stone, and dissolves into light.
The light spreads — gentle, cleansing — and the chamber exhales a long‑held breath.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“Even the oldest darkness cannot hold forever. The Temple’s whispers faded.
Its chains broke. Its prisoners woke… and walked their own paths again.”
CUT TO:
EXT. OLD SVALICH ROAD — TWILIGHT
A cold wind moves through the pines. Snow drifts lazily across the ravine where the pack once tore itself apart.
But the air is different now.
Calmer.
Listening.
Footsteps crunch through the snow.
EMIL TORANESCU emerges from the trees — older, scarred, but steady.
Beside him walks ZULEIKA, her eyes sharp, her posture proud.
Behind them: a small group of werewolves — some grizzled veterans, some barely more than youths, all carrying themselves with quiet purpose.
They stop at the clearing where the bodies once lay.
A moment of silence.
Zuleika kneels, placing a carved wooden charm — the symbol of Mother Night, but softened, reinterpreted, no longer a mark of fear.
ZULEIKA (softly): “For the ones we lost. And the ones we failed.”
Emil places a hand on her shoulder.
EMIL: “We start again. No more chains. No more masters. No more killing our own.”
A young werewolf — barely sixteen — steps forward.
YOUNG WOLF: “Where do we go now?”
Emil looks toward the mountains.
Zuleika looks toward the forests.
They share a glance — a decision made without words.
EMIL: “Where we choose. For the first time.”
The pack shifts — not into wolves, but into a loose circle around their leaders.
A family, not a hierarchy.
TIME LAPSE — THE PACK’S NEW LIFE
The werewolves build shelters deep in the Balinok foothills, far from villages, close to the wild places they love.
Children run in the snow, laughing — not hunting.
Zuleika teaches them to track without killing.
Emil teaches them to fight without cruelty.
A council forms — not an alpha’s throne, but a circle of equals.
A human merchant caravan arrives; the pack trades pelts and herbs peacefully.
A young wolf brings home a lute — a nod to Bianca — and music fills the campfire night.
The pack is no longer a terror.
No longer a weapon.
No longer broken.
They are simply… a people.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“The werewolves were once Strahd’s teeth in the dark. But even teeth can be turned to gentler purposes.”
EXT. SWAMP FANE — NIGHT
A vision:
The Seeker, Weaver, and Huntress stand in a circle of moonlight.
A fourth figure steps in — pale, soft, radiant.
The Dreamer.
Lady Winter no more.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“The Ladies Three became Four again. The Seeker’s thread shone brightest —
as if someone we loved had worn her face once.”
A quiet nod to Madame Eva.
EXT. BEREZ SQUARE — SUNSET
Arabelle stands before the statue of the heroes.
Her beloved at her side.
The crowd cheering.
The valley alive.
She smiles.
Not for the past.
But for the future.
ARABELLE (V.O.)
“The story lives on. The valley is free.
And Barovia, at last, belongs to its people.”
FADE TO WHITE.
FADE TO SUNLIGHT.
END OF CAMPAIGN
Almost…
Smash cut to:
EXT. KARAMEIKOS — HIGH ROAD — DUSK
A lonely stretch of road. Crickets. A wagon rattles along, driven by two bored KARAMEIKAN GUARDSMEN.
In the back sits BARGLE THE INFAMOUS, shackled, gagged, and looking deeply offended by the indignity of being transported like common riff‑raff.
His hair is wild. His robes are singed. His expression is pure, simmering resentment.
A sign on the wagon reads:
“PROPERTY OF THE CROWN — DANGEROUS PRISONER”
Bargle rolls his eyes.
GUARD #1 (reading a scroll): “Wanted for arson, fraud, magical misconduct, impersonating clergy, impersonating nobility, impersonating livestock—”
GUARD #2 (interrupting): “—Don’t forget ‘public indecency.’”
Bargle glares.
GUARD #1: “You think he’s really as dangerous as they say?”
GUARD #2: “Nah. Looks like a wet cat someone cursed. “
Bargle muffles a furious scream behind the gag.
Suddenly — a spark of arcane energy flickers around his fingers.
The guards freeze.
GUARD #1: “Uh… did you see that?”
GUARD #2: “…Nope. Didn’t see a thing.” (leans in) “And neither did you, wizard.”
He taps the anti‑magic manacles. They glow.
The spark fizzles.
Bargle slumps, defeated.
GUARD #1: “So what do you think they’ll do with him?”
GUARD #2: “Oh, the usual.” (Shrug). “Trial. Sentencing. Community service.”
GUARD #1: “Community service?”
GUARD #2: “Yeah. I heard the Duke needs someone to clean the royal privies.”
Bargle lets out a muffled, horrified wail.
The wagon rolls on toward the distant lights of Specularum.
A title card fades in:
“BARGLE THE INFAMOUS
WAS NOT HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS EPILOGUE.
BUT HIS DIGNITY WAS.”
Fade out.
End Credits Resume over: Bargle The Infamous - Along the Way