Threshold
Blackness. An unsettling hush.
Then—a voice. Gravelly, worn, whispering through the veil of silence like the slow drag of a blade over stone. An Eastern European accent curls around each word, thick and deliberate. Picture Bill Skarsgård in Nosferatu—that eerie cadence, laced with ancient hunger.
Man's Voice:
"I am the Ancient. I am the Land. My beginnings, lost in the darkness. I made a pact with death, a pact of blood. I did not die. I did not live. 'Vampyr' is my new name. I have walked the ancient ways, and thus I have become the Land. And I searched for her, the one for whom I made this devil's pact. I have felt her within my grasp, but always she slipped away…"
Background Music: Transylvania 1887
FADE IN:
A map of the Grand Duchy of Karameikos stretches across the screen, its aged parchment flickering under the dim glow of candlelight. The camera slowly zooms in, tracing the rugged terrain and winding rivers, settling on the Radlebb Woods—a place of ancient whispers and lingering darkness.
Then—movement.
A shadow, twisted and unnatural, crawls across the map. The shadow of a clawed hand, talon-like fingers stretching impossibly long, slides over the Radlebb Woods, creeping across the hills and valleys beyond. The shadow hunts, searching. Finally, it finds its mark—Threshold. The town shivers under its touch, the light dimming, the air thickening with unseen menace. A distant bell tolls, slow and mournful.
EXT. TARNSKEEP – NIGHT
Title Card: Tarnskeep, Ambyrmont 2, 1000 AC
Moon: Waxing gibbous
Weather: Calm and clear… at first.
A pair of torches flicker against the darkened walls of Tarnskeep. Outside the fortress, two guards cross paths, meeting briefly on their patrol. Their armor clinks softly as they exchange a salute, preparing to move on—when suddenly…
A wind picks up.
It’s not the gentle breeze of a Karameikan night—it’s cold, unnatural, laced with something unseen. The temperature drops, a breath of ice crawling over their skin.
GUARD #1 (Pulling his cloak tighter): "It's an ill wind that blows tonight."
GUARD #2 (Silent, but nods in agreement.)
A cloudbank races in, veiling the moon, shifting the shadows over the keep. Then—movement.
A rider appears, ragged, haggard—a Traladaran man who looks as if he’s ridden through hell itself. His horse is filthy, its flanks foaming with sweat, streaked with mud and brambles. He has the look of someone pursued, though what chases him is nowhere to be seen.
GUARD #1: (Lowering his pike) "Who goes there?"
RIDER: (Breathless, voice hoarse) "A missive for the Patriarch Sherlaine."
One guard hurries off to rouse the chamberlain, while the others remain in place—pikes still raised, eyes turning toward the sky. The black clouds roll closer.
(Fade to)
INT. ALEENA’S SITTING ROOM – DAY
Background Music: Dead Can Dance - Bylar
Weather: Overcast, a soft gloom pressing against the windows.
The room is warm, inviting, a contrast to the dreary skies outside. A fireplace flickers, casting soft light over the plush furnishings. A tea service sits between Clarion and an obviously quite pregnant Aleena, steam rising from delicate porcelain cups.
Clarion leans forward, her voice gentle, sincere.
CLARION: "Congratulations, Aleena—I’m so happy for you and Aric."(A pause, her expression faltering slightly) "Hawk and I have not yet been so blessed."
She tries to mask the worry in her tone, but Aleena notices. She sets her cup down, studying Clarion with a healer’s practiced gaze.
ALEENA: (Soft, reassuring)"There’s nothing wrong, Clarion—you and Hawk are both young and strong. It will happen in due time, I can tell."
Clarion nods, though her thoughts still linger.
Before the conversation can continue, the door creaks open.
Enter Patriarch Sherlaine—Aleena’s uncle, his brow creased with concern. He doesn’t hesitate to speak in front of Clarion.
SHERLAINE: (lowering his voice, measured, deliberate) "The temple received a missive in the night. It concerns... Bargle the Infamous. He has been sighted not two nights ago in the Radlebb Woods. We need someone to investigate this report, and thwart whatever scheme he may now be concocting. I have chosen you, Adept Clarion. You and your friends are familiar with Bargle's evil way and have stopped him before."
Sherlaine pulls a worn scrap of parchment from his robes and places it into Clarion’s waiting hands.
CLARION: (resolute, bowing slightly) "It shall be done as you ask, Your Grace."
INT. THE JUGGLING OGRE PUB – NIGHT
Background Music: Busy Tavern Ambience with Music | Fantasy | D&D & RPG Soundscape for Streaming or Playing at Home
The rain drums softly against the windows, the dull murmur of the tavern hanging heavy in the air. The usual laughter and rowdy chatter are subdued, drowned beneath the gloom that lingers both outside and within. At a corner table, Fleetwood, Felonious, Silverleaf, and Greegan sit in uneasy silence, their drinks barely touched. Clarion leans forward, voice hushed but deliberate.
CLARION: (measured, deliberate) "The Patriarch asked me to investigate the report. Bargle is on the move again - and this time maybe we can catch him unaware."
FLEETWOOD: (frowning, cautious) "Radlebb? I’ve never set foot there. But the old folks… they whisper strange things about that forest."
Across the worn wooden table, SILVERLEAF leans forward, eyes sharp, voice unwavering.
SILVERLEAF: "The Calarii patrol those woods. If Bargle’s stirring trouble in Radlebb, they’ll help us."
Cut to:
Scene 2 - The House
TRAVEL MONTAGE – THRESHOLD TO THE RADLEBB WOODS
Background music: Fantasy | D&D Music - Background | Exploration | Travel | Adventure Mix
EXT. OPEN ROAD – DAY
The group sets out from Threshold, their mounts steady, hooves clipping against the well-worn dirt roads. The sun sits high, golden and generous, casting long shadows that stretch alongside them. Fleetwood hums a marching tune, absentminded yet rhythmic. Greegan flips a copper coin, catching it in time with Fleetwood’s melody. Silverleaf, ever watchful, rides slightly apart, her gaze sweeping the horizon, always reading the land before it can betray them.
EXT. WOODED PATH – DUSK
The road narrows, pressed in by gnarled trees, their branches clawing at the fading light.
A wheel catches an unseen rut—Felonious curses as the cart lurches, sending supplies tumbling to the ground. Clarion and Greegan scramble to retrieve them before they roll too far.
Silverleaf’s mount rears abruptly, its panic sharp, sudden, unnatural—spooked by something that cannot be seen, only felt. She tightens the reins, calming the beast, but her fingers tremble slightly, her elven instincts screaming that something is wrong.
EXT. RADLEBB WOODS – NIGHT
Background Music: Into the Mists | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The air shifts. Cooler. Still. The torchlight flickers, its glow uneven, restless, casting warped shadows against the ancient bark. The road twists, narrowing as it winds deeper into the woods, the trees growing taller, gnarled, whispering.
And then—
Fog.
Thick, creeping, unnatural, curling from the earth as though it were alive, swallowing the ground with a silent hunger.
It wraps around their boots, their horses’ hooves, the wheel spokes of the cart, sinking into them like something waiting, something knowing, something inevitable. Their breaths shallow, the world smaller now, confined, altered.
Greegan nudges Fleetwood, his voice quieter than he intended, because somehow, anything louder feels wrong.
GREEGAN: (soft, wary, unshaken but uneasy) "Tell me that’s normal."
The mist rolls thick, curling through gnarled trees, pressing in, swallowing sound. The forest air hangs heavy, damp with something unspoken, waiting. Through the haze—a house looms.
FELONIOUS: (puzzled) "A grand manor house, all the way out here in the Rad-forsaken wilderness?”
The wrought-iron gate groans, hinges protesting as Greegan pushes it open, the sound splitting the silence. Fleetwood steps forward, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade, his stance careful, measured. Felonious squints toward the hanging oil lamps, their flickering glow barely illuminating the space beyond. Silverleaf lingers at the entrance, her bow at the ready, her instincts whispering that something does not belong here. The oaken doors stand before them, heavy, ancient, watching. Four stories of cold, soot-stained stone, tall narrow windows watching from high-peaked roofs, a twisted monument of chilling grandeur. A balcony juts out from the third floor, an eerie perch overlooking the grounds—silent, unwelcoming, expectant.
The wind shifts, dragging fog across the wrought-iron gate, its rusted hinges creaking, the sound splitting the silence like a whisper from the dead. Two oil lamps hang in chains, their flames weak, flickering, casting sickly light that barely wounds the surrounding darkness.
Fleetwood pulls his cloak tighter, his expression steeled, his breath controlled—but measured.
FLEETWOOD: (low, steady, reading the structure like a battlefield) "That’s a fortress masquerading as a house."
GREEGAN: (wry, uneasy but hiding it well) "Sure. If fortresses were built to spook travelers instead of repel armies."
Felonious studies the stone, fingers twitching with the familiar itch of arcane analysis.
FELONIOUS: (soft, calculating, murmured to himself) "Older than it looks. More aware than it should be."
Silverleaf frowns, her stance shifting slightly, her bow held tighter than before. She studies the path, the tree lines, the contours of the land—everything familiar. Except this. She exhales slowly, her voice calm—but lined with something deeper.
SILVERLEAF: (controlled, but troubled) "I've been through the Radlebb Woods before. I know this clearing. But I’ve never seen this house before."
The wind presses, the oil lamps sway, the gate moans with the weight of time— And beyond it, the oaken doors stand closed, darkened with age, unmoving. Fleetwood, his grip firm on his sword hilt, eyes the darkened stone, the twisting shadows, the air that does not feel right.
FLEETWOOD: (grim, thoughtful) "Could this be Bargle’s work?"
Felonious exhales, rubbing his chin, gaze sweeping across the architecture, fingers twitching as he studies the mystic threads woven into the mist itself.
FELONIOUS: (sharp, calculating, analyzing the possibility) "This… feels different… other… than him."
Greegan snorts, flipping his dagger once before settling it back into his grip, eyes darting across the windows, the balcony, the gate that groans as if resentful of their presence.
GREEGAN: (dry, skeptical, but still uneasy) "Does it matter if it’s Bargle or not? He’s got a habit of making places like this… deadly."
Clarion frowns, shifting closer to the entrance, her fingers tight on her holy symbol, sensing something unseen, something watching.
CLARION : (firm, thoughtful, but resolute) "If this is Bargle, then we cannot ignore it. If it isn’t—" (she exhales, gaze narrowing) "—we need to understand what we’re dealing with before we step inside."
Silverleaf still lingers a few steps away, her body rigid, alert, her bow steady but her gaze edged with unfamiliar uncertainty.
INT. MANSION – GRAND FOYER – NIGHT
Background music shifts: Exploring the Death House | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Music | 1h D&D Dark Exploration Music | Loop
Greegan tests the latch, finding no resistance. With a slow push, the doors creak open, revealing— A grand foyer.
The air inside is still, thick with something unsaid, untouched, preserved beyond time. Fleetwood steps in first, boots echoing against polished wood. Hanging along the south wall—a shield, emblazoned with a stylized golden windmill on a red field. Framed portraits flank it, aristocrats with stony faces, their eyes cold, their expressions hard, unyielding, unmoving.
Silverleaf’s breath catches. She scans the room, her gaze sharp, uncertain. Clarion furrows her brow, her fingers tightening around her holy symbol, sensing something old, something patient.
Felonious steps closer to the shield, studying the design, the crest, the weight of history embedded within it.
FELONIOUS: (contemplative) "This doesn't look like a local crest. Or at least I've not seen it before. Not in Karameikos, Glantri, or anywhere else I've been."
Beyond them, mahogany-framed double doors loom, their panes of stained glass catching the dim glow of the oil lamps, twisting the light into colors long dulled by dust.
INT. MANSION – WIDE HALL – NIGHT
The mahogany doors groan softly as Greegan pushes them open, revealing a grand hallway that stretches the width of the house. Fleetwood steps forward, eyes scanning the black marble fireplace at one end, its surface polished but cold, untouched by recent flame. Silverleaf slows her pace, taking in the sweeping red marble staircase, its curved railings twisting upward into shadows.
Felonious studies the large grandfather clock standing at the foot of the stairs, its pendulum swinging in slow, deliberate beats, filling the air with an unsettling, rhythmic echo.
Clarion’s gaze shifts to the portrait above the fireplace, a family frozen in time—father, mother, two children, a boy and a girl—their painted expressions dour, their eyes locked onto the room as if watching for something unseen.
GREEGAN: (low, thoughtful, with a hint of skepticism) "Rich folk always love their staircases grand. But tell me—if someone's living here, where are they now? Why did they let us just walk in?"
Fleetwood steps toward the clock, watching its pendulum swing, counting the beats—steady, measured, precise. Silverleaf frowns, gaze lingering on the portrait.
SILVERLEAF: (soft, wary, noting details others might miss) "They don't look familiar—like nobody that lives around here."
Felonious narrows his eyes, brushing his fingers along the edges of the staircase, feeling the dust—or lack of it.
FELONIOUS : (murmured, analytical, reading into something deeper) "This house isn’t abandoned. It’s waiting."
The moment the last boot crosses the threshold of the hall, the front door slams shut, the sound splitting the silence like a thunderclap. Darkness swallows the room whole. The oil lamps flicker once—then die, the light snuffed out as though choked by unseen hands. Fleetwood instinctively reaches for his blade, his breath controlled but sharp, listening.
Greegan swears under his breath, the dagger in his grip suddenly feeling less like reassurance and more like desperation. Clarion grips her holy symbol, whispering a quick, urgent prayer, its warmth uncertain against the pressing dark. Felonious mutters an incantation, his fingers tracing familiar patterns in the air, his staff lights up but the magic feels sluggish, thick—heavy, as if something is suppressing it. Rather than its usual brightness, it seems to gutter like a lantern flame in the wind.
Silverleaf steps closer to the nearest wall, her bow drawn, her breath steady, but her heart beating faster than she’d like to admit.
Then—
Six chimes.
The grandfather clock rings out, each chime heavy, deliberate, echoing through the silence like a verdict passed down.
Fleetwood’s hand tightens around his sword hilt, the steady rhythm of the chimes mocking his uncertainty.
Greegan flinches, lips pressing into a thin line, his usual sharp tongue held in check by the weight of the moment.
Felonious exhales slowly, the sound of the clock unnerving even him, though he refuses to show it.
Clarion draws a breath, centering herself, her grip on her holy symbol firm, unwavering, but not unaffected.
Silverleaf frowns, shifting slightly, every instinct reading the air, the walls, the unseen presence that is surely here.
Greegan crouches before the mahogany door, fingertips brushing its cold, aged surface, searching for the familiar signs of danger—springs, wires, hidden mechanisms. Nothing. Just the lock, solid but unguarded—an obstacle, not a threat.
Then—a sound From everywhere and nowhere.
As the party watches in horror, bloody writing begins to appear on the wall above the staircase:
Beneath this dwelling lurks a beast
Who hungers for a bloody feast.
He sleeps until the midnight chime
Then wakes to feed his dark design.
If morsels seek to flee their doom,
Then bring toward his secret room
A gift to soothe his savage mood
But mind the servants of his brood.
Greegan stiffens, his grip tightening around his lockpick, his instinct to run clashing against his instinct to know. Fleetwood steps closer, his sword held ready, body tense, gaze scanning the dim-lit room for something unseen.
Felonious narrows his eyes, his mind already turning over possibilities—ghost, enchantment, memory, warning.
Clarion’s breath slows, her holy symbol resting just above her fingers, its presence firm, unwavering, an anchor against the rising unease.
Greegan slowly walks to the front door, tries the knob. It will not open. He pulls. Nothing. Harder. Nothing. Takes a small crowbar out of his tool kit, tries to wedge it between the door and the frame - it will not fit. Fleetwood tries the door now, yanking with all his considerable might. The door does not budge.
Greegan: “Oh, bollocks.”
Fade to End credits over background music: House of Doom