FADE IN:
A storm‑torn valley.
Mist coils through dead trees like breath from unseen lungs.
The wind carries whispers — not words, but names.
Barovia stretches below, its rivers black and slow, its mountains crowned with ruin.
Ahead, three faint lights flicker in the fog — distant, spectral, calling.
The camera glides toward them:
one crimson, one silver, one emerald.
Each pulse like a heartbeat buried in the earth.
TITLE CARD:
THE THREE FANES — carved in runic script, glowing faintly as if written in blood and moonlight.
The glow trembles.
The wind falters.
Silence descends.
❄️ CHARACTER INTRODUCTIONS — THE LAND REMEMBERS
(Each name appears as the camera passes them)
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) — on a ridge above the valley, cloak snapping in the wind. He watches lightning crawl across the horizon, tracing the shape of the first Fane. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, eyes narrowed.
He whispers, “It’s waking.”
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) — kneeling beside a half‑buried altar.
Her lantern burns with silver flame, bending toward the east.
She touches the stone, and frost melts beneath her fingers.
A prayer escapes her lips — half hope, half warning.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) — trudging through a ravine where the fog moves against the wind. His compass spins, then locks toward a fissure glowing faintly green. He mutters, “The earth’s bleeding again,” and presses on.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) — beneath a shattered arch, studying runes carved in bone.
The parchment in his hands hums softly.
He looks up — the air ripples, and for a moment, the stars blink out.
He smiles, uneasy. “They’re listening.”
Silverleaf (Tatyana Maslany) — standing in a grove of petrified trees.
Her bow is drawn, arrow nocked, eyes fixed on a shadow that moves like smoke.
Amber motes drift from her breath.
She whispers, “The forest remembers.”
Ireena (Tomasin McKenzie) — at the edge of a frozen lake.
The lavender blade glows faintly at her side.
She gazes into the reflection — three lights shimmer beneath the ice.
Her voice is steady: “We find them. Or Barovia dies.”
Arabelle (Cailee Spaeny) — seated in the snow, eyes closed, hands pressed to the ground. Her voice is a whisper carried by the wind:
“The Fanes are dreaming. Don’t wake them angry.”
Ezmerelda (Morena Baccarin) — sharpening her blade beside a dying fire.
The flames flare crimson, then fade to ash.
She smirks. “Guess we’re heading into another nightmare.”
🏔️ FINAL SHOT — THE VALLEY BREATHES
The storm parts for a heartbeat.
Three distant peaks glow — red, silver, green — each pulsing like a wound.
The camera pushes forward, the wind rising again.
A whisper curls through the air — ancient, hungry, patient.
FADE OUT.
With:
David Dastmalchian as Urwin Martikov
Ruth Negga as Danika Dorakova
Helen Mirren as Lady Fiona Wachter
Carice Van Houten as Anastrasya Karelova
Wizard of Wines — Arrival
EXT. VINEYARD — TWILIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Strahd Prevails
Twilight bleeds across the valley like spilled wine.
Turul descends in silence, wings vast enough to blot the stars.
The gust of its landing ripples through the vineyard, bending the frost‑bitten vines as though they bow in reverence.
The party dismounts from Turul’s back — boots sinking into cold soil, breath ghosting in the air.
But the vineyard is not as they left it.
🏚️ The Winery in Ruin
The northern wall of the second story yawns open — timber and stone torn apart as if by claws. Splintered beams jut like broken ribs.
Inside, rooms lie in ruin: overturned tables, shattered glass glittering like frost, the scent of old wine and dust thick in the air. The building groans, remembering pain.
🪆 The Scarecrows Below
In the vineyard rows, scarecrows stand sentinel.
Not the familiar guardians of the Martikovs — these are strangers, their painted eyes leering, mouths twisted in mockery. Mist curls around their feet.
They do not move.
But they watch.
🐦 The Raven’s Arrival
A single raven caws from a skeletal tree.
It dives — wings slicing the dusk — and lands upon Silverleaf’s outstretched hand.
Its talons are gentle; its eyes, sharp as prophecy.
Around one leg, a note bound with twine.
Silverleaf unties it.
Unfolds it.
📜 The Message
The parchment trembles in the wind.
Ink scrawled in haste, the letters bleeding into the fibers:
Emergency — please come to Blue Water Inn. — Urwin
The words seem to hum, alive with dread.
The wind shifts.
The scarecrows remain still.
The winery groans — a wounded thing dreaming of its former life.
The raven takes flight, vanishing into the mist.
Because the Martikovs are no longer safe.
And the Blue Water Inn may be the last place left to stand.
Wizard of Wines — Twilight
EXT. VINEYARD — MOMENTS AFTER LANDING
The sky bruises to violet as Turul lifts from the earth.
Its wings beat once—twice—and the air trembles.
Then the Roc vanishes into the clouds above Mount Ghakis, leaving only silence.
The wind dies.
The vineyard holds its breath.
Too silent.
🪆 The Scarecrows Stir
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Nocturnal Onslaught
Among the twisted vines, the unfamiliar scarecrows twitch.
One turns its head with a wooden creak, painted eyes gleaming through the mist.
Another lifts its arm, straw fingers curling like claws.
A third steps forward — jerky, unnatural — its grin splitting wider, seams tearing with the motion.
The sound is faint, like laughter buried in earth.
Silverleaf steps back, eyes narrowing.
Her breath fogs in the cold air.
SILVERLEAF: “They waited for Turul to leave.”
She draws her blade — steel whispering against the scabbard.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “They knew.”
Clarion moves to the front, shield lifted, the Seeker’s gem tucked safely in her satchel.
Her voice is steady, but the wind carries its echo like a prayer.
CLARION: “Protect the gem. Protect each other.”
The gem pulses faintly, as if listening.
Fleetwood steps beside her, blade catching the last light of dusk.
FLEETWOOD: “Scarecrows again.”
He glances toward the ruined winery.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “But these aren’t the same. Something’s changed.”
The vines rustle — not from wind, but from movement.
Felonious lifts his hands, arcane light flickering between his fingers.
FELONIOUS: “They’re constructs. But something’s animating them.”
He looks toward the broken wall of the winery, where shadow pools like blood.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Something inside.”
Arabelle stands behind Ezmerelda, clutching her sunburst puzzle.
Her voice is barely a whisper.
ARABELLE: “They’re not just scarecrows. They’re listening.”
The toy’s mirror catches a flicker of movement — a reflection that isn’t her own.
The scarecrows advance.
The mist thickens, swallowing the vineyard in gray.
The party stands alone —
No Roc.
No sky.
Only the vineyard.
And the harvest that walks.
Wizard of Wines — Vineyard Rows
EXT. VINEYARD — TWILIGHT
The wind dies.
The Roc is gone.
And the scarecrows begin to move.
Painted eyes gleam through the mist.
Straw limbs jerk and twist.
They lurch forward — grotesque parodies of guardians, claws outstretched, mouths split into stitched grins that seem to breathe.
The vineyard itself seems to recoil.
Fleetwood does not wait.
He lunges into the fog, blade flashing like lightning.
FLEETWOOD: “Back to the field with you.”
His sword cleaves through the nearest scarecrow’s chest — splinters fly, straw ignites, and the creature collapses in a heap of ash and cloth.
The smell of burnt hay fills the air.
Clarion steps before Arabelle, shield raised high.
A scarecrow lunges — she meets it with a brutal bash to the face.
Wood cracks.
Her follow‑up strike sends it tumbling into the vines.
CLARION: “Stay behind me.”
The gem at her side pulses faintly, as though echoing her command.
Felonious lifts his hand, arcane flame swirling in his palm.
FELONIOUS: “Let’s see how you like the sun.”
He hurls a bolt — three scarecrows ignite, flailing as they collapse into burning heaps.
The mist glows orange, then fades to gray.
The vineyard smells of smoke and sorrow.
Silverleaf glides between the rows, her blade whispering through the fog.
Two scarecrows fall in a single motion — heads roll, straw spills, silence follows.
She does not speak.
She does not need to.
Ezmerelda steps forward, boots crunching ash.
One scarecrow remains — larger, stitched with bones.
She twirls her blade once, then drives it through the creature’s chest.
It spasms.
Then falls.
The mist exhales.
Arabelle does not scream.
She watches — quiet, intent.
Her sunburst puzzle glints in the fading light.
ARABELLE: “They weren’t meant to win.”
Her voice is soft, but the words linger like prophecy.
The vineyard falls silent.
The scarecrows lie in ruin.
The party stands unscathed.
Because whatever sent them —
underestimated what the land now protects.
Wizard of Wines — Interior
INT. WINERY — TWILIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Strahd Prevails
The shattered doorway yawns like a wound.
The party steps through, boots crunching glass and splintered wood.
The air is heavy — wine, dust, and something older.
No Martikovs.
No ravens.
No voices.
Only silence.
And the gouges.
Silverleaf kneels beside a trench carved deep into the damp earth.
Her fingers trace the edge — cold, jagged, deliberate.
SILVERLEAF: “Something massive.”
She studies the pattern, the drag marks, the torn soil.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “Dragged. Southbound. Not a creature. A construct. Or a siege engine.”
She rises, eyes narrowing toward the open doorway.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “It left in a hurry.
The wind sighs through the broken beams, carrying the faint scent of iron.
Felonious stops mid‑step.
His eyes glaze.
His fingers twitch.
The air around him hums — a whisper threading through the silence.
VICTOR (sending): “I need your help. Lady Wachter has betrayed us. The town has gone mad. I can’t reach Stella. When will you return?”
Felonious inhales sharply, the echo fading.
FELONIOUS: “Victor. He’s in trouble.”
He turns to Silverleaf, voice low.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Lady Wachter’s taken complete control in Vallaki. He can’t reach Stella.”
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Silverleaf pulls a folded note from her satchel — parchment worn, edges stained.
She hands it to Felonious.
SILVERLEAF: “Urwin sent this.”
Felonious reads aloud, voice steady:
EMERGENCY — PLEASE COME TO BLUE WATER INN. — UNWIN
The ink seems to bleed as he speaks.
Clarion looks between them — between the note and the gouges.
Her shield catches the dim light, reflecting the ruin around them.
CLARION: “Two calls. Two fires.”
She glances south, then east — the directions heavy with meaning.
CLARION (CONT’D): “We need to choose.”
The gem at her side pulses once, faint and green.
The gouges stretch south.
The town burns east.
And the party stands in the wreckage of a sanctuary —
With two voices calling.
And no time left to wait.
Scene: Wizard of Wines — Twilight
INT. WINERY — SHATTERED COMMON ROOM
The party stands amidst the wreckage. The gouges in the earth stretch south. The note from Urwin trembles in Silverleaf’s hand. Felonious stares into the middle distance, Victor’s voice still echoing in his mind.
Fleetwood steps forward.
His voice is calm.
But final.
FLEETWOOD: “Both calls lead to Vallaki.”
He looks at the others.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “And it’s past time we got there.”
Clarion tightens the strap on her satchel, the Seeker’s gem pulsing faintly inside.
CLARION: “Then we go.”
Silverleaf looks toward the gouges, then back to the note.
She doesn’t speak.
But she folds the parchment carefully.
And follows.
FELONIOUS: “Victor. Stella. Urwin. Too many threads.”
He sighs.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Time to weave them.”
EZMERELDA: “If Lady Wachter’s taken the town— She’s going to regret it.”
Arabelle lingers a moment, watching the scorched soil.
She whispers:
ARABELLE: “The vines are listening.”
Then she turns.
And walks.
The party leaves the vineyard.
The scarecrows lie in ruin.
The winery is silent.
And Vallaki—
Vallaki waits.
With open gates.
And closed fists.
Montage — From the Wizard of Wines to Vallaki
EXT. BAROVIAN ROADS — EARLY MORNING TO DUSK
Background Music: Fabomusic - Old Svalich Road
Mist clings to the earth like memory.
The road winds eastward, narrow and uneven, hemmed in by the Svalich Woods.
The trees lean close — too close — their branches whispering secrets the wind refuses to carry.
The sun never truly rises; it only struggles against the gray.
The Procession
Silverleaf walks ahead, eyes scanning the treetops for wings that never come.
Fleetwood keeps pace beside her, hand resting on the Keeper’s Whistle — a relic that hums faintly, as though remembering flight.
Felonious mutters to himself, ink bleeding across the pages of his spellbook, words half‑formed and half‑forgotten.
Clarion hums a hymn older than the valley, the Seeker’s gem pulsing faintly in her satchel like a heartbeat beneath cloth.
Ezmerelda sharpens her blade as she walks, never looking down, each stroke a promise.
Greegan carries Ireena’s pack without comment, his silence heavier than armor.
Arabelle skips stones across puddles, her sunburst puzzle glinting in the dim light — a child’s defiance against the mist.
The Road’s Silence
No wolves.
No ravens.
No sound but the crunch of boots and the sigh of fog.
The valley watches, unseen.
Approach to Vallaki
By dusk, the mist thins.
The road widens.
The air tastes of smoke and iron.
Ahead, the faint outline of Vallaki rises — walls dark against the dying light, gates yawning open like a mouth that forgot how to smile.
The party does not speak.
They simply walk.
Because Barovia waits.
And Vallaki is listening.
Vallaki — Western Gate
EXT. VALLAKI — WESTERN GATE
Background Music: Fabomusic - Town of Vallaki
Mist coils around the party’s boots as they stand before the sealed gate.
The wooden doors loom tall, iron‑bound and unwelcoming, their surface scarred by age and fear.
Two guards in battered armor stand rigid, faces pale beneath their helms.
Flanking them: three gray‑robed cultists, their expressions blank — almost amused, as though they already know the ending of this tale.
GUARD#1: “Hawk Fleetwood and the so-called Order of the Silver Dragon. You are forbidden to enter Vallaki by order of the Burgomisstress.”
Greegan steps forward.
He does not draw steel.
He draws words.
GREEGAN: “We’ve come to help. You know who we are. You know what we’ve done for this valley.”
He gestures to the others — warriors, wanderers, survivors.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “We’ve fought off druids, beasts, worse. We’ve protected this town before.”
GUARD #1: “Our orders are clear.”
The mist thickens, swallowing the space between them.
GREEGAN: “Then let me speak to Lady Wachter. Or Urwin Martikov. Or anyone who still has a spine.”
GUARD #2: “No one will come.”
CULTIST #1 (smiling faintly): “The Lady does not entertain guests.”
The smile does not reach his eyes.
Greegan steps closer, boots sinking into the damp earth.
GREEGAN: “You think this gate will keep out what’s coming?”
His voice is low — not a threat, but a truth.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “We’re not your enemies. But if you turn away allies—”
He lets the silence finish the sentence.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “You’ll have no one left when the real monsters arrive.”
GUARD #1: “We were told not to let you in.”
GUARD #2: “That’s all we need to know.”
Their hands tighten on their spears.
Their eyes do not waver.
CULTIST #2: “The Lady has spoken.”
CULTIST #3: “And we obey.”
Greegan stares at the gate.
Then at the guards.
Then at the town beyond — a shadowed promise behind wooden walls.
He does not yell.
He does not curse.
He simply says—
GREEGAN: “You’ll regret this.”
The words fall like a prophecy.
The party turns away.
The gate remains closed.
And Vallaki —
once a place of refuge —
now watches its defenders walk away.
CUT TO:
Road Outside Vallaki — Dusk
EXT. BAROVIAN ROAD — JUST BEYOND VALLAKI’S GATES
The mist thickens as dusk bleeds across the valley.
The gate behind them stands sealed — a monument of denial.
The guards remain unmoved.
The cultists, indifferent.
And the air hums with the quiet ache of rejection.
Greegan had tried — earnest, persuasive, even a touch charming.
But the answer was still no.
Fleetwood stops mid‑step, boots sinking into the damp road.
He glances back toward the gate, its silhouette fading into fog.
FLEETWOOD: “They’ll report us. No doubt.”
He turns to Felonious, brow raised.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “That trick you used back in Threshold — when you looked like Bargle to fool those pirates. Can you do that for all of us?”
Felonious lifts his hand, arcane light flickering between his fingers.
The mist bends toward him, drawn by the pulse of magic.
FELONIOUS: “Child’s play.”
He gestures, words of illusion curling through the air like smoke.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Let’s meet Boris the Architect.”
🎭 The Disguise Takes Shape
Fleetwood’s armor ripples into a tailored coat of velvet and brass.
Clarion’s shield becomes a rolled blueprint, edges glowing faintly.
Silverleaf’s cloak shifts into a surveyor’s mantle, ink‑stained and worn.
Ezmerelda gains a monocle and a ledger, her expression unchanged.
Felonious himself becomes Boris — rotund, balding, ink‑fingered, perpetually scowling.
Greegan’s form hardens into that of a stone‑faced foreman.
Arabelle’s toy puzzle gleams as a compass in the hands of a mute apprentice.
The illusion holds — convincing at a glance, fragile beneath scrutiny.
SILVERLEAF (whispers): “Let’s hope they don’t ask for permits.”
Her voice is dry, but her eyes flick toward the gate.
CLARION (adjusting satchel): “Or recognize our faces.)
The gem in her satchel pulses once, faintly — as if in warning.
The party turns back toward Vallaki.
The mist thickens, swallowing their footsteps.
The gate looms ahead — silent, waiting.
And Boris the Architect approaches,
blueprints in hand,
secrets tucked beneath illusion.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — Western Gate to Town Square
EXT. VALLAKI — WESTERN GATE — DUSK
Mist drapes the road like a funeral shroud.
The party, cloaked in illusion, approaches the gate — Boris the Architect and his retinue, born of Felonious’s conjured deceit. The guards glance over them, eyes dull from long hours and longer fears.
No questions.
No scrutiny.
Just a nod.
The gates groan open — slow, reluctant, like a beast disturbed from sleep.
🎭 Passing Through
Fleetwood keeps his head bowed, adjusting the velvet collar of his illusory coat.
Silverleaf walks with the quiet precision of a surveyor, eyes flicking across rooftops where shadows perch.
Felonious — now Boris — mutters about zoning ordinances, his voice thick with irritation and ink.
Clarion clutches her blueprint scroll as though it were scripture.
Ezmerelda adjusts her monocle with theatrical disdain, every movement sharp as a blade.
Greegan strides like a man who built half the town and buried the other half.
Arabelle, silent, watches everything — her compass glinting faintly in the dying light.
The illusion holds.
For now.
Vallaki Streets — Twilight
EXT. VALLAKI — TOWN STREETS
The town breathes differently.
No banners.
No forced smiles.
No festivals.
Only people — working, watching, whispering.
The air tastes of smoke and resignation.
Greegan slips into a side alley, the mist swallowing him whole.
Coins trade hands.
Words follow.
He returns, voice low, eyes darker than before.
GREEGAN: “They don’t know who we are. Not yet.”
He glances at the others.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “But they know what we did. The skull. The beacon.”
He looks at Felonious.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “Argynvostholt burned bright. And Strahd didn’t like that.”
The mist shivers at the name.
GREEGAN (CONT’D) : “Old Toothy sent someone. An emissary. People think it’s a vampire.”
He glances toward a passing villager — pale, silent, eyes downcast.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “They won’t say his name. But they say he came with fire. And left with blood.”
Fleetwood’s hand tightens around the Keeper’s Whistle.
FLEETWOOD: “And we’re Public Enemy Number One.”
CLARION: “Then we stay quiet.”
Her gaze drifts toward the distant glow of the Blue Water Inn.
CLARION (CONT’D): “And we find our allies.”
The party walks on.
The town watches.
And somewhere — unseen — the vampire smiles.
Because the heroes have returned.
And the game has begun again.
FOLLOW TO:
Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
EXT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — EVENING
The streets of Vallaki lie hushed beneath a pall of mist.
No banners flutter, no laughter echoes — only the sound of boots on cobblestone and the faint creak of shutters closing.
The party moves through the gloom, cloaked in illusion, their borrowed faces reflecting the town’s unease.
As they round the corner toward the church, they slow.
Something has changed.
🕍 The Church Steps
A dark‑haired woman stands upon the steps of St. Andral’s Church, her gray robe rippling like smoke. Her voice carries — not loud, but clear, a bell tolling through fog.
A small crowd gathers below — villagers wrapped in silence, their eyes hollow yet attentive.
Behind her, a poster nailed to the church doors gleams faintly:
a silver longsword superimposed on a white kite shield, adorned with a sprig of belladonna.
The symbol glows faintly, as though it remembers light.
WOMAN: “The silver light is a message from Ezra, She Who Dwells in the Mists.”
She lifts her hands, palms open to the gray sky.
WOMAN (CONT’D): “We must not surrender to darkness, nor lose ourselves to fantasies of a golden dawn.”
Her gaze sweeps the crowd — steady, unblinking.
WOMAN (CONT’D): “We must bend with the wind, and seek solace in the mist — for only there may we endure what must be endured.”
Her words fall like ash, soft and heavy.
Silverleaf slows, eyes narrowing.
She knows the name — Ezra, the Guardian in the Mists.
A deity of endurance, protection, quiet resistance.
But this tone — this sect — feels different.
Not healing.
Not hope.
Only survival.
Felonious leans toward Fleetwood, voice low.
FELONIOUS: “I’ve read of this deity in the Tome. Ezra’s church has many faces.
Some gentle. Some… not.”
The mist curls around his words, swallowing them whole.
Clarion studies the symbol, tracing its fractured lines.
CLARION: “A shield broken into five pieces. One for each prophet.”
She frowns, the gem at her side pulsing faintly.
CLARION (CONT’D): “But this one preaches surrender.”
Arabelle, half‑hidden behind Greegan, whispers softly.
ARABELLE: “She’s not wrong.”
Her gaze drifts upward, toward the mist‑shrouded sky.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “But she’s not right either.”
Her compass glints once, then dims.
The party moves on.
The woman continues to preach.
The mist thickens, curling around the church like a living thing.
Because in Vallaki —
even faith bends to survive.
And the silver light may not be enough.
Vallaki — Blue Water Inn
EXT. BLUE WATER INN — NIGHTFALL
Background Music: Fabomusic - Blue Water Inn
The Blue Water Inn rises from the mist like a wounded sentinel.
Its familiar silhouette is marred — scorch marks claw up the walls, beams splinter like broken ribs, and half‑repaired boards cling to the frame as though holding the building together by will alone.
Strahd’s fury lingers here, etched into every charred plank — the price of Argynvostholt’s beacon daring to burn again.
Candlelight flickers behind the windows.
But the warmth is thinner now.
Cautious.
Guarded.
Fleetwood surveys the damage, brow furrowed, the illusionary velvet collar of his coat catching the dim light.
FLEETWOOD: “How do we find Urwin and Danika without blowing our cover?”
He glances at the others, voice low.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “We can’t just walk in and say hello.”
Felonious — still wrapped in the guise of Boris the Architect — straightens his ink‑stained coat with pompous irritation.
FELONIOUS: “Leave that to me.”
He strides toward the entrance, every step a performance.
He throws open the door with theatrical disdain.
FELONIOUS (as Boris): “UN-ACCEPT-A-BLE!”
He slams a rolled blueprint onto the counter, the sound echoing like a gavel.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “This establishment is a disgrace! Rotting beams! Crooked joists! I DE-MAND to speak to the proprietor at once!”
He sniffs dramatically.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “I will not be made to sleep in a draft!”
From the back room, Urwin Martikov emerges, wiping his hands on a towel.
His eyes widen — not in recognition, but in alarm.
URWIN: “Sir, I— We’re still rebuilding. If you’d just—”
Danika Dorakova steps beside him, calm but wary, her gaze sharp as a hawk’s.
DANIKA: “We weren’t expecting guests tonight.”
She studies the party — the velvet, the blueprints, the monocle, the compass.
DANIKA (CONT’D): “Especially not architects.”
🎭 The Party Holds the Illusion
Fleetwood adjusts his collar with curt annoyance.
Clarion unfurls a scroll with exaggerated precision.
Silverleaf inspects a cracked beam with feigned dismay.
Ezmerelda scribbles notes in her ledger, monocle glinting.
Greegan grunts like a foreman who has seen too much.
Arabelle hides behind her compass, silent and small.
The illusion holds — barely.
URWIN: “We appreciate your concern, but we’re not hiring.”
He glances at Danika.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Do you know these people?”
DANIKA: “No.”
Her eyes narrow — not hostile, but searching.
The party stands in disguise.
Their allies stand unaware.
And the inn — still healing — holds its breath.
Because the beacon has been lit.
The vampire has responded.
And the architects of rebellion have returned.
Blue Water Inn — Common Room
INT. BLUE WATER INN — NIGHT
The common room breathes like a wounded heart.
The fire crackles weakly in the hearth, throwing light across half‑rebuilt walls and beams that groan under their own weight.
The air hums with quiet urgency — the kind that tastes of secrets and smoke.
The party sits at a corner table, cloaked in illusion as Boris the Architect and his retinue. Their borrowed faces flicker in the candlelight, masks of civility stretched thin over truth.
Silverleaf’s gaze sweeps the crowd — a barmaid refilling mugs, a workman hammering a beam, a cloaked figure sipping wine too slowly.
Her voice is low, steady.
SILVERLEAF: “We need to speak to them. Alone.”
Her hand rests on the table, fingers tapping once — a signal, not a sound.
Felonious glances toward Urwin, who chats with a merchant about supply chains.
Danika moves through the room, helping the barmaid balance a tray.
FELONIOUS (muttering): “This place has more ears than a festival choir.”
He closes his spellbook just enough to hide the shimmer of runes beneath the table.
Fleetwood drums his fingers, eyes narrowed.
FLEETWOOD: “We can’t risk dropping the illusion. Not here. Not now.”
He glances at the barmaid — polite curiosity masking suspicion.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “They’ll turn us in before we finish a sentence.”
Clarion sips her drink, voice barely audible beneath the crackle of the fire.
CLARION: “We’re surrounded by good intentions and bad timing.”
Her shield‑gem pulses once, dim and green, before fading again.
Ezmerelda leans back, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
EZMERELDA: “We could clear the room.”
Felonious raises an eyebrow.
FELONIOUS: “With fire?”
EZMERELDA: “With coin.”
Her grin is quick, dangerous, and gone.
Arabelle tugs at Silverleaf’s sleeve, voice soft as candle smoke.
ARABELLE: “They’re trying to help.”
She glances toward the barmaid.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “But they don’t know who we are.”
Her compass glints faintly — a child’s toy, a prophet’s omen.
The party sits in silence.
The fire crackles.
The inn hums with life.
And Urwin and Danika, their oldest allies, remain just out of reach —
Because in Vallaki,
even friendship must wear a mask.
Blue Water Inn — Common Room
INT. BLUE WATER INN — NIGHT
The common room breathes with uneasy life.
Half‑repaired beams groan overhead, the fire crackles like a wounded animal, and every corner holds a shadow that listens too closely.
The party sits cloaked in illusion — Boris the Architect and his retinue — while tension coils beneath the table like a waiting serpent.
Barmaids drift between tables.
Workmen linger over mugs.
A cloaked patron refuses to leave his wine.
Every attempt at privacy dissolves into the hum of too many ears.
Greegan Leans Toward Ezmerelda
Greegan’s voice is low, gravel softened by caution.
GREEGAN: “You said coin could clear the room.”
He glances at the crowd — the watchers, the wanderers, the weary.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “I’m willing.”
Ezmerelda doesn’t look at him.
She just smiles — a sharp, knowing curve of the mouth.
EZMERELDA: “Good.”
She snaps her ledger shut and rises, boots whispering across the floorboards.
At the bar, she drops a small pouch of coin.
The clink rings through the room like a spell.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “A round for everyone.:
She turns, voice carrying with effortless authority.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “And a bonus if they take it somewhere else. The architect requires quiet. And I require less company.”
Her monocle glints like a threat.
Urwin hesitates — caught between hospitality and confusion — then nods to the barmaid.
URWIN: “You heard her. Drinks on the house — outside.”
The barmaid claps her hands, ushering patrons toward the door.
Silverleaf’s eyes track the movement — workmen shuffling out with mugs, the cloaked patron reluctantly rising, the barmaid guiding the last straggler away.
The room empties.
Not entirely.
But enough.
The air changes — thinner, quieter, expectant.
Greegan leans back, satisfied.
GREEGAN: “Sometimes the hammer isn’t for building.”
Ezmerelda smirks without turning.
The common room settles into silence.
The fire crackles.
The shadows lean closer.
And behind the bar, Urwin and Danika — unaware of the truth beneath the illusions — remain alone with their guests.
Because in Vallaki, even allies must be approached like ghosts in the fog.
And tonight, the masks are about to fall.
CUT TO:
Interlude — Between the Blue Water Inn and Wachterhaus
EXT. VALLAKI — FOG‑DRENCHED STREETS — NIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Encounter in Vallaki
Mist drifts through the alleys like memory refusing to die.
The Blue Water Inn looms behind, its candlelight dimming to embers.
A single figure slips from the shadows — the observer, cloak heavy with dew, eyes reflecting the faint shimmer of illusion breaking.
Inside the inn, Felonious’s borrowed face flickers — a ripple of truth beneath the mask.
For one heartbeat, the illusion falters.
The spy sees him.
Sees the exhaustion, the brilliance, the defiance.
And then the veil reforms, seamless once more.
The observer exhales, fog curling from his lips.
He turns away, boots whispering across wet stone.
Each step carries the secret deeper into the night.
The streets narrow.
Windows shutter.
The sound of distant bells fades into silence.
Only the wind speaks — carrying whispers toward the northern quarter where Wachterhaus waits.
A mansion of velvet and rot.
Its silhouette rises against the moon, tall and patient.
Inside, candles burn like watchful eyes.
The spy approaches the gate, unseen.
The iron creaks open.
And the secret — Felonious’s truth — crosses the threshold.
The mist thickens.
The inn sleeps.
The mansion wakes.
And somewhere between them,
Barovia itself smiles —
because every mask, sooner or later, must fall.
Wachterhaus — Midnight
INT. WACHTERHAUS — PARLOR ROOM
Background Music: Fabomusic - Strahd's Brides
Fog clings to Vallaki’s midnight streets like a second skin.
The camera glides behind the cloaked observer as they slip through alleys, past shuttered windows that tremble with candlelight, and toward the looming silhouette of Wachterhaus — a mansion that seems to lean toward the street as if listening for secrets.
Inside, velvet curtains smother the walls.
Candlelight trembles in tall iron sconces.
The air tastes of incense, old wine, and danger.
🕯️ The Observer Reports
The cloaked figure kneels on the parlor’s threadbare rug.
Before him stand two women:
Fiona Wachter, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles pale, eyes darting toward every shadow as though expecting them to move.
And beside her — seated like a queen in exile — a veiled woman in a hot red dress, posture perfect, presence colder than moonlit stone.
Her lips curve.
Her eyes gleam.
Anastrasya Karelova.
The observer bows his head.
OBSERVER: “They’re here.”
A beat.
OBSERVER (CONT’D): “That wizard - Felonious. I saw him drop the illusion.
Where he is, the others will surely be. They’re inside the Blue Water Inn.”
He hesitates — a tremor of fear.
OBSERVER (CONT’D): “Should I alert the guard?”
Anastrasya leans forward, one gloved finger tracing the rim of her wine glass.
The sound is soft — a whisper of crystal, a promise of blood.
Her voice is velvet dipped in frost.
ANASTRASYA: “Not yet.”
She smiles — a slow, deliberate unfurling of intent.
ANASTRASYA (CONT’D): “I have a better idea.”
She turns to Fiona, who flinches as though struck by a cold wind.
ANASTRASYA (CONT’D): “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll get your town back.”
She rises, the red dress flowing like spilled wine.
ANASTRASYA (CONT’D): “But first—”
A pause.
A glint.
A hunger.
ANASTRASYA (CONT’D): “Let’s see what they do when they think they’re safe.”
The candle flickers.
The wine glows red.
Fiona trembles.
And Anastrasya steps into the dark hallway beyond —
a shadow in crimson,
a promise of ruin,
a predator already savoring the chase.
Because the hunt has begun.
And the prey has no idea.
CUT TO:
Blue Water Inn — Storage Alcove
INT. BLUE WATER INN — PRIVATE ROOM — NIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Blue Water Inn
The lantern sputters, its flame trembling like a secret about to die.
Crates of wine loom in the half‑light, their shadows long and crooked across the floorboards.
Felonious stands revealed — the illusion of Boris burned away for a moment’s truth.
He leans against a beam, arms folded, eyes hollow with exhaustion and resolve.
The air smells of dust, smoke, and spilled wine.
Outside, the wind claws at the shutters.
FELONIOUS: “We’ve been to the winery.”
He watches Urwin’s face — the flicker of recognition, the tightening of the jaw.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “It’s empty. Scarecrows attacked us. The place was torn.” apart.
Urwin Nods, Grim
URWIN: “I know.”
He sighs, rubbing his temples, the gesture weary and human in a room that feels anything but.
URWIN (CONT’D): “The Inn’s been closed for two days. Lady Wachter’s orders.
’Harboring traitors against Vallaki and Castle Ravenloft.’”
He scoffs — a sound too small against the weight of the words.
URWIN (CONT’D): “No customers. Just the workers I hired to rebuild what Strahd burned.”
FELONIOUS (frowns): “She’s claiming Strahd’s authority now?”
URWIN: “Three days ago, she received the emissary of Count Strahd. Then she started issuing edicts. Says they ‘bear the authority of Castle Ravenloft.’”
He ticks them off on his fingers — each decree a nail in Vallaki’s coffin.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Closed the inn. Imprisoned Father Lucian. Locked the gates — no one leaves. Even threw poor Blinsky into the stocks.”
FELONIOUS: “The toymaker? What did he do?”
URWIN: “Made a puppet that looked too much like Strahd, maybe. Or maybe she just hates joy.”
His voice falters.
The lantern flickers again.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Two nights ago, some of the guards tried to protest. Went to Wachterhaus. None came back.”
FELONIOUS: “What happened?”
URWIN: “Bats.”
He says it like a curse.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Dozens of swarms. They pour out of the basement every night. Hang from rooftops. Listen through windows.”
He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
URWIN (CONT’D): “They hate ravens. Our spies can’t even enter the town anymore. They have to skirt the walls.”
Felonious absorbs the news — each word a stone sinking into the dark.
The inn is closed.
The priest is gone.
The toymaker punished.
And the bats — the bats are watching.
But beyond the window, unseen in the fog, another watcher waits.
The trap is already being set.
INT. BLUE WATER INN — STORAGE ALCOVE — NIGHT
The lantern trembles, its flame a nervous pulse against the dark.
Dust motes drift like ash.
Felonious leans in, the illusion long gone, his true face half‑lit by the glow.
Unwin’s voice is low, hoarse, shadowed with dread.
URWIN: “As if that were not bad enough, two nights ago, Baba Lysaga came for the winery.”
He swallows, the sound loud in the silence.
URWIN (CONT’D): “She rode in on that cursed hut of hers — legs like tree trunks, stomping through the vineyard like it was paper.”
He gestures upward, toward the ceiling that still bears the scars.
UNWIN (CONT’D): “Shattered the upper walls. No warning. No mercy.”
FELONIOUS: “The witch of Berez.”
The words fall like stones into water.
URWIN: “Claudiu escaped. Stefenia and Dag’s eldest. Fifteen. Barely.”
He glances toward the stairs.
URWIN (CONT’D): “He’s in the guest room upstairs.”
URWIN (CONT’D): “The rest — taken. Dragged off. Presumably to Berez.”
He sighs, the sound brittle.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Claudiu brought the final enchanted gem with him. Danika and I have it now. Safe. For the moment.”
FELONIOUS (Leaning in): “And the ravens?”
URWIN: “They’re tracking. Skirting the walls — those bats in Wachterhaus won’t let them through the town.”
He glances at the door, as though expecting wings to scrape against it.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Last night, Claudiu tried to sneak out. Wanted to fly to Berez himself.”
He shakes his head, weary.
URWIN (CONT’D): “I caught him. Brought him back. Danika and I agree — he’s too young. Too raw.”
He hesitates.
URWIN (CONT’D): “And if Lysaga had found him…”
He doesn’t finish.
The silence does it for him.
Felonious nods, the weight of it settling like dust.
The Martikovs are gone.
The gem is safe.
And upstairs — a boy waits.
Burning with guilt.
Dreaming of wings.
Ready to fly into the swamp.
And somewhere beyond the walls,
the witch listens.
FADE TO BLACK:
End credits Play over: Fabomusic - Strahd Prevails