Beginning Credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (In our dreams, perhaps)
Melodic War Productions presents:
— Grimwild: Barovia
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal
A lit candle flickers against a stained-glass window. A gust of wind snuffs it out.
As darkness deepens, faint glyphs burn across the screen—a six-pointed sigil spinning slowly.
BAROVIA
The title emerges as cracked stone covered in frost
🏡 0:09–0:20 | Village of Barovia
Wide shots of a decaying village.
Shutters closing just before you look.
Rainwater tracing veins down crooked walls.
The church bell swings without sound.
Rahadin reading from the scroll in the village square
Ireena lying on the floor of Kolyan’s study, a vampire bite on her neck
🙍♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Wanderers
Split-second glimpses of the player characters through fog-framed vignettes:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) pacing beneath the shadow of a gallows.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneeling beside crumbled bones, whispering a blessing that makes the mist recoil.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) tasting blood, testing wind, and vanishing into branches.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) scrawling arcane sigils on a bar counter with wine.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) flipping a coin by a wishing well—its reflection doesn’t match the face.
Starring
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
💍 0:46–0:58 | Symbols Beneath the Skin
A signet ring drops into a basin of dark water.
Symbols spiral outward.
A map of Barovia redraws itself in blood as unseen hands shuffle tarot cards off-screen.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note
The mist closes in.
Five shadows move through the Gates of Barovia.
The gate clangs shut—on its own.
The village beyond looks unchanged...
…but listens.
Main Title by Alan Silvestri
Fade to black.
COLD OPEN BEGINS.
FADE IN:
Background Music: Ismark Kolyanovich (Heroic Deeds Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Loop
🌫️ EXT. BURGOMASTER’S MANSION – DAWN
A pale mist lingers in the cold morning air, shrouding the mansion’s iron gates and curling around the wheels of Felonious’ cart like grasping fingers.
The coffin, new made but rough-hewn, creaks as Fleetwood and Parriwimple secure it with deliberate reverence. No birds sing. The silence is heavy, broken only by the scrape of rope and the snap of leather reins.
Suddenly, a shadow detaches itself from the swirling fog.
Enter GREGOR VASILI—his silhouette emerging like a blade from smoke. His coat is dust-caked, his eyes colder than the morning frost. He doesn’t walk—he advances, like judgment itself.
GREGOR (firm, unyielding) “Before this man is taken to the earth, he must be examined.”
ISMARK (curt) “Examined for what, Gregor?”
GREGOR (grim): “For signs—so he will not rise to serve the Devil.”
A beat. The air darkens, almost imperceptibly.
FELONIOUS (dry): “I don’t think it's him you have to worry about.”
GREGOR: “We will see about that.”
Gregor reaches the coffin. A black crow lands on a nearby railing, silent as the grave. Ireena and Ismark move forward, unease etched across their faces.
Before Gregor can touch the lid, GREEGAN steps between them. His presence is calm but immovable, like a boulder in a river’s path.
GREEGAN (measured) “We honor him, Gregor. Our cleric has examined him well—and we’re taking him to yours. Let the dead have peace.”
Gregor’s eyes narrow to slits. His hand lingers in the air, indecisive. Then—
His gaze shifts. Toward Ireena and Ismark. His voice drops.
GREGOR (low, unwavering) “The Devil's gaze is upon you. Do not think yourselves unseen.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Ireena grips the cart, knuckles white. Ismark’s eyes stay on Gregor, locked and unreadable. The fog thickens.
Gregor turns sharply, his coat flaring like wings behind him. No more words. He vanishes into Barovia’s mist, leaving dread behind like ashes in the wind.
🎵 A low bell chimes in the distance.
Background music: Lyke Wake Dirge
🎬 FADE IN:
🌫️ EXT. VILLAGE OF BAROVIA – DAY
The camera drifts just above ground level, gliding with the funeral procession through the narrow, mist-laced lanes. The fog clings like breath to the crumbling stones of the buildings. Sounds are muffled—like the world is listening through a shroud.
Families cluster behind broken fences and cracked window panes, lit by trembling candlelight. Children hold weather-worn tokens to their chests. Elders whisper beneath shawls that carry the scent of ash and memory.
Every step toward the church feels like trespass—gravity pressing harder with each stride. Clarion avoids Fleetwood’s touch and any offer of comfort, but won’t say anything.
📸 WIDE SHOT – TOWN SQUARE
Mourners stand like statues, eyes damp, voices caught in throats. Their songs—the hymns of the lost—flutter and crack like parchment in wind.
But no priest stands to lead them. His absence speaks louder than their grief.
📸 CLOSE-UP – ISMARK
The camera locks onto his face—rigid, hollowed by weight. Villagers shift toward him, not with ceremony, but desperation. Their silence asks for hope. For truth. For anything.
Ismark tries. He swallows. Breathes. But the words die before they reach his lips.
The hymns falter. The wind changes. Words scatter like cinders:
"Strahd is watching."
"The dead may not rest."
"What if this calm is just a lull?"
The fog thickens—as if eavesdropping.
🎭 DIALOGUE MOMENT
ISMARK (hoarse, confused): “I don’t understand. Where is Father Donavich?”
PARRIWIMPLE (matter-of-fact): “Oh, he won’t come out of the church. I haven’t seen him since the dead arose.”
BILDRATH: (gruff, frustrated) “Why didn’t you say anything before, you great stupid lump?”
PARRIWIMPLE (blinking, slightly wounded): “...Nobody asked.”
The camera pans up toward the steeple of the church, where the symbol of the Morninglord leans crookedly against gray sky. The fog churns tighter around its base.
Cut to:
EXT. BAROVIA'S CHURCH – DAY
Background Music shifts: Donavich and Doru | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1 h D&D Somber Background Music
The cart grinds to a halt, wheels sinking into mud. The fog curls thick around its base, tendrils grasping upward like fingers lost in prayer.
Beyond the mist—the church.
It slouches against the roots of the great castle’s pillar stone like a broken sentinel. Its silhouette: all rot and resignation. Gray stone crumbles. Wood beams sag like old limbs. A bell tower leans precariously above—its empty frame wheezing beneath time’s breath.
Above it all: the castle on the crag. An unspoken authority carved against the sky—its shadow stretching without shape, pressing into the earth like a memory.
INT. CHURCH – FLICKER OF LIGHT
Faint illumination spills from holes in the roof—candlelight that quivers, afraid to shine.
The rafters groan. Once. Then again. Not loud—but intentional. A warning disguised as architecture.
EXT. CHURCH STEPS – CONTINUOUS
The party dismounts. Mist clings to boots. The air reeks of wet stone, spoiled parchment… and something colder.
ISMARK (pausing, unsettled) “Uh, Parriwimple… how was Father Donavich, last you saw him?”
PARRIWIMPLE (honest, childlike) “Real rough. Like when your tummy hurts and you can't sleep. But worse. I think he misses Doru. I do too.”
BILDRATH (grumbling) “Feh. Fill that empty head of yours with sunshine tales—look where it got him.”
SILVERLEAF (gently, to Parriwimple) “The sun is real. We’ve seen it.”
A faint smile creeps onto Parriwimple’s face.
PARRIWIMPLE: “I miss Alanik too. He had a monkey. Sometimes, he let me pet it.”
BILDRATH (sour) “Bah! He’s the one that started all this mess.”
INT. CHURCH DOORS – MOMENTS LATER
Wind pushes through the shingles. Wood creaks.
CLARION (tracing symbols, frowning) I don’t know this god…
ISMARK (stepping forward, voice low) The Morninglord. (beat, faltering) He’s… worshiped here. But lately… Mother Night takes more prayers.
The mist coils upward now, brushing the edges of the door, pushing inward.
FELONIOUS (watching Ismark) “That’s not just doubt, is it?”
Ismark doesn’t respond. But Bildrath smirks. His eyes flicker—just once—toward the bell tower.
The groan comes again from within. Longer. Lower. Less… timber. More… throat.
The doors shudder open.
Inside: gloom, thick and tangible. Wax, rotwood, incense—beneath it all, something sour. Wrong.
Fleetwood, Clarion, Ismark, and Ireena enter, boots echoing over worn stone. Gregor trails behind, a smirk playing at his lips, the kind that knows sorrow is inevitable.
Outside, Felonious, Silverleaf, and Greegan linger near the cart. Their eyes drift—castle, mist, coffin. The moment is suspended in twilight.
From above, the rafters moan. Shadows stretch too far.
🌫️ INT. CHURCH – CHAPEL – CONTINUOUS
Candles flicker, gasping in the dark. Dust floats in sheets through fractured light. The chapel is shattered. Pews reduced to splinters. Order undone.
At the altar—Father Donavich, kneeling. His robes: soiled, threadbare. His prayer: just breath. Just memory.
IREENA (softly) “Father Donavich?”
He rises. No holy symbol. His face: older than his years.
DONAVICH (low, strained) “I can’t give you what you seek. I’m sorry for what this place has become. Go. Leave it behind.”
ISMARK (choked) “Our father… is dead.”
DONAVICH (flat) “You have my condolences. But I cannot perform the rites. My faith… is dead. Everything is.”
CLARION (quiet, empathetic) “I know that kind of silence. That kind of hunger. But Barovia needs you still. So does your god.”
FLEETWOOD (suspicious) “Funny that your collapse happened just when the Nosferatu attacked. Too perfect. Too convenient.”
CLARION (gentle) “What did he take from you?”
DONAVICH (weeping) “You know of Doru?”
CLARION: “That he went to the castle. To destroy the vampire. And never returned.”
DONAVICH (shaking) “Not entirely true...”
FLEETWOOD (flat) “I don’t like this.”
ISMARK and IREENA look stunned—already knowing what’s coming.
DONAVICH: “During the siege... he came back. Or something wearing him did. This... this ruin was his work. I trapped him below. But his voice... his face...”
He trails off.
DONAVICH “I should have destroyed him. But I couldn’t. The Morninglord won’t hear me. But maybe you can.”
He looks to Clarion.
CLARION (calm, direct) “I’ve destroyed undead before. Are you asking us to kill what remains of your son?”
DONAVICH (broken) “What else is left?”
FLEETWOOD: “Then show us.”
🧩 INT. CHURCH – LOWER CORRIDOR
The group descends behind Donavich. Hallways narrow. Stone sweats.
He stops at a trap door—chained, padlocked.
DONAVICH: “He took my holy symbol. I gave it to him to protect him. It failed. I haven’t felt the Morninglord since.”
He looks to Clarion, hollow.
DONAVICH “If you find it, if you end this… I may be able to send Kolyan on properly.”
ISMARK (tense) “Ireena stays back. If this creature escapes, I’ll help hold it. We can’t afford another vampire close to her.”
FLEETWOOD: “Understood. Felonious and Silverleaf are our line of defense if this goes wrong.”
DONAVICH (turning the lock, whispering) “May the Morninglord have mercy…”
Metal clicks. The trap door creaks open. Below: darkness. .
Cut to:
INT. CHURCH CELLAR – DAY
The camera tilts downward, following Fleetwood and Clarion as they descend a rickety wooden ladder, each creak of the steps amplified in the silence. Dust spirals through the air, catching in the thin shafts of candlelight that leak through warped floorboards above.
Clarion’s boot touches the dirt floor, the ground uneven and cold as grave-soil. She steadies herself, glancing into the swallowing dark beyond the ladder.
Fleetwood: (Whispers) "Light low. Don’t call attention."
The cellar stretches out in shadowed silence—support beams leaning at odd angles, long-forgotten relics half-buried in cobwebs. The only sound now is the faint drip of moisture from somewhere deeper.
No growl. No scurry. No breath.
Clarion slowly raises her lantern. Light flickers across the walls, but nothing stirs.
That’s what makes it worse.
Fleetwood: (low, tense) "Nothing living down here."
Clarion: (quietly, eyes narrowing): "Nothing dead either. That we can see."
A young man's voice comes from the suffocating darkness beyond the lantern light.
Doru: (Frightened) "Have you come to kill me?"
Fleetwood freezes mid-step, eyes narrowing toward the direction of the voice. Clarion’s lantern quivers slightly in her grip, the glow trembling across warped beams and dirt walls.
A long pause.
Then—Fleetwood’s voice, low, guarded: "Depends who you are."
From the darkness, the young man exhales. Not relief. Not despair. Just tired.
Doru: (voice rasping) "Then maybe you should. I’m not sure I’m still… me."
Clarion steps forward, her expression shifting from caution to something more resolute.
Clarion: (gently) "Come into the light."
No movement. Then—a scrape. A rustle of cloth.
The camera slowly pulls focus—
Clarion’s lantern sputters, its flickering glow barely holding the dark at bay—but enough to catch the grotesque elegance of the figure descending from the rafters. He folds from the wood like a dying moth, limbs too fluid, gaze too sharp.
Fleetwood steps back instinctively, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed. Clarion barely breathes, frozen not in fear—but in recognition.
The figure lands, soundlessly. (Portrayed by someone like Kodi Smit-McPhee) He’s young. Tragically so. And beneath the grime, the wear, and the terrible truth in his features… he looks like Donavich. Exactly like him.
Clarion (whispers, stunned): "Doru…"
He shifts on his heels, shamed by the word, but doesn’t deny it. His eyes scan the faces before him—frantic, sunken, human still… but only just.
His voice cracks as he speaks, hoarse from disuse—or from hunger.
Doru: (quietly): "If you want to kill me… I won’t stop you. But I just—" (he swallows, tongue brushing over bloodless lips) "I just have one request first."
Fleetwood: (suspicious) "What sort of request?"
He moves subtly, placing himself between Doru and Clarion.
Doru: "I need to know… if I am still myself. Or if I have truly become the monster the books say I am."
Fleetwood's eyes flick to Clarion for a moment. He looks back - Doru has moved an inch closer. His sword is at the ready instantly. Clarion holds her holy symbol and begins to pray.
Clarion: "Evil clings to you like a black cloud, but I don't feel it rules you… yet."
Doru: "Let me smell fresh blood. If I am overcome, you may kill me. If not, let my father know that his son still lives."
Fleetwood again looks to Clarion. She nods gently, and prepares to present her holy symbol of things go wrong.
Clarion removes her gauntlet, and takes Fleetwood's dagger, running it across her palm. Close up of blood welling.
The lantern’s flame quivers, casting long, warped shadows across the beams and stone. Fleetwood doesn’t blink—his blade already gleams faintly in the low light, angled just enough to move in an instant.
Clarion’s prayer hums through the cold air, her holy symbol glowing faintly in her hand—a fragile halo ready to flare at the first sign of damnation.
Doru inches closer, his steps soft as breath, eyes glassy with emotion and restrained hunger. He stops mere feet from them, his focus locked on the cleric’s hand.
Doru: (hoarse) "Your hand is bleeding. Just a drop. That's all it would take."
Doru stares at her hand , jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. His entire body trembles.
Fleetwood shifts his stance. Ready. Waiting.
A long moment passes.
And then—Doru stumbles back, recoiling as if from a flame.
He buries his face in his hands, breath ragged, choked with the sound of withheld sobbing.
Doru: (voice cracking) "I can still say no."
Clarion closes her eyes, whispering words of thanks under her breath.
Fleetwood’s gaze lingers on Doru, his expression caught between caution and something more human. The boy—what remains of him—sits hunched beneath the low beams, the lantern casting long shadows behind his gaunt form.
A beat passes.
Then—Fleetwood steps forward, just far enough to let his silhouette brush the edge of the lantern light.
Fleetwood: (quietly, not unkindly) "You’re not what I expected when we came down here."
Doru looks up slowly—startled, even confused. As if the words don’t compute in the nightmare he's been trapped in.
Fleetwood turns to Clarion, voice low but steady.
Fleetwood: "Is there anything that can be done for him?"
A silence follows—thick, uncertain, sacred.
Clarion doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes are fixed on the bloodstained symbol at Doru’s chest. She clutches her own holy emblem, thumb brushing its smooth surface as if feeling for wisdom in its weight.
Her voice, when it comes, is small—but carries the weight of truth.
Clarion: (soft, aching): "If there is… Chardastes hasn't shown me."
Doru exhales—not relief. Not fear. Just an emptiness that’s somehow worse.
Fleetwood's jaw tenses. He looks again at the boy, at the half-life behind those red-rimmed eyes, and says nothing. There is no good answer here.
A tense silence hangs in the air, cut only by the low hum of Clarion’s whispered prayer still fading from moments before. The dust in the lanternlight has stilled—held in suspense.
Clarion: (with conviction, but not cruelty) "This is not an affliction. This is not a wound that can be closed." (a breath—steady, resigned) "This is a vampire. I've never even tried to cure anything like that—only put them to final rest. The undead, even ones that don’t intend harm, are steeped in the darkest of black magic."
Fleetwood turns to her slowly, voice quiet but edged with something more questioning than defiant.
Fleetwood: (softly) "Black magic? Perhaps…"
Clarion meets his gaze, firm but pleading now.
Clarion: "Don’t make him do this. He barely escaped Bargle’s shadow. This… it’s even worse."
A beat. A flicker in Fleetwood’s eyes. He turns back toward Doru.
Fleetwood: (gently, but with weight) "He may be all the hope this poor boy’s got right now."
The camera shifts—Doru crouched low, pale hands clutched in front of him. He stares between the two of them, the echo of the word hope lingering in his eyes like a half-forgotten prayer.
INT. BAROVIA’S CHURCH – CHAPEL – DAY
The air is thick, pressing against the shadows pooling beneath the floorboards, the flickering candlelight barely holding against the weight of dread settling into the room.
Felonious sweeps through the chapel, his expression a mix of confidence and uncertainty, absorbing the details Clarion quickly fills him in - He cogitates for a moment. His knowledge is there, scattered in fragments, tangled in half-remembered studies and theories clouded by reckless bravado.
He heads with her down to the undercroft, and asks Doru if he may examine him.
He exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and states—
FELONIOUS (Mutters to self) "There are times when I wish I'd picked another teacher besides Bargle." (Composes himself) "Alright, so... vampires. Bad news. Real bad. They’re strong. Nearly impossible to kill. Need blood—obsessively. Uh... sunlight’s a problem for them, obviously, and—"
He pauses, brow furrowing as if reaching for something crucial, something slipping just out of grasp. Then—his lips part slightly, realization landing, but not fully formed.
FELONIOUS: "An absolute plague back in Glantri, particularly Boldavia. But something's… different. He's been like this for at least a month according to his father. Yet, he refuses the blood." (low, uneasy) "This isn’t normal."
The air shifts, charged with a new tension—not just fear, but possibility. Clarion steps forward, her voice steady, urgent, unwavering.
CLARION: (pressing, direct) "What do we need to do?"
Felonious exhales, sharp, focused, pulling the pieces together. Felonious straightens, his mind sharpened by perfect clarity, his voice low but sure.
FELONIOUS: "We need to act fast. If the change isn’t complete, there may still be a way to reverse it—but only if we approach it correctly. Always assuming, of course, that Bargle wasn't, as Greegan puts it, yanking my chain."
A pause. Felonious nods to himself, setting his stance, speaking in quick, measured beats.
FELONIOUS: "First—contain him. Fully. No chances. No gaps. No errors."
The priest nods, quick, resolute. Felonious continues, his words carrying weight, precision, urgency.
FELONIOUS: "Second—restore him. We need something from before the change. A tether. A force stronger than the hunger. Something that makes him remember who he was."
FELONIOUS: "Third—banish the corruption. Starvation won’t work. Faith alone won’t work. Magic alone won’t work. It has to be all of it. Physical, spiritual, arcane—every force at our disposal. Even then - it has as much chance to make him into the monster his master intended, or outright kill him as it does to cure him."
Another pause.
FELONIOUS: "This is not just a rescue. This is a fight. And we do not get second chances."
Cut to:
EXT. BAROVIA’S CHURCH – CART – DAY
Felonious and Clarion stride back toward the cart, their movements quick, deliberate, steady—the weight of what’s about to happen settling into every step. Greegan and Silverleaf watch them approach, their postures tense but controlled, waiting. Felonious speaks first, his voice low, sharp, edged with urgency.
FELONIOUS: (firm, resolute) "We'll need Silverleaf for this. Greegan, if this goes sideways, you may be the only one who can stop him from getting loose in Barovia. Or stop anything else that tries to interfere."
Greegan grins slightly, resting a hand on his dagger, a gesture more instinctive than aggressive.
GREEGAN: "Now that sounds like a job I can get behind."
Clarion exhales sharply, lifting her priestess' bag, fingers tightening over the worn leather.
CLARION: (quiet, pressing) "Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that."
The three turn, stepping back into the ruins of the church, the air pressing thicker, the wind outside shifting as though listening.
INT. CHURCH OF BAROVIA – ALTAR HALL – NIGHT
Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance. Donavich stands at the altar, fingers white-knuckled around his bronze holy symbol, breath ragged but laced with a flicker—not hope exactly, but the possibility of it. Across from him, Felonious approaches slowly, his coat heavy with the weight of spell components, scars, and choices he didn’t ask to make. His voice is calm, but the edge beneath it is undeniable.
FELONIOUS: (level, with quiet warning) "This is not guaranteed. We’ve never attempted anything like this before… and my mentor was… shall we say… less than trustworthy."
Donavich nods, slow, deliberate.
DONAVICH: (softly, but firm) "Then let the Morninglord guide us."
MONTAGE – UNDERCROFT DESCENT
The group descends—one by one—into the cold heart of the ruined church. The torchlight dances over cracked stone, casting long shadows of doubt behind them.
INT. UNDERCROFT – NIGHT
Felonious steps into the circle. His eyes meet Doru’s—the boy-thing that was once a son, trembling, pale, afraid.
FELONIOUS: (kindly)"Doru. One final time. Are you willing to go through with this?"
DORU: (hoarse, near whisper) "For my father… for my friends… for Gertruda… yes."
FELONIOUS: (with grim compassion): "Brace yourself, lad. This is going to hurt. I can’t promise… what’ll be left."
THE RITUAL BEGINS
Background Music Shifts: Tubular Bells (Opening Theme / From "The Exorcist")
Fleetwood, Parriwimple, and Ismark seize Doru’s arms and shoulders as the undead boy begins to tremble violently.
Arcane sigils blaze to life. Clarion sings a prayer—half hymn, half battle cry. Donavich grips his symbol so hard his knuckles bleed. Silverleaf whispers a name long forgotten to most elves—ancient and dangerous.
Wind surges through the rafters like a scream. Shadows pull away from the corners, drawn toward the pulsing heart of the spell. Doru thrashes. He sobs, then snarls.
DORU: (howling) "I—I can’t—!"
Parriwimple: (straining) "Mister Fleetwood, sir! He’s awful strong!"
Fleetwood: (teeth clenched, refusing to yield) "So are we, son. Hold him. If you want your friend back—hold him!"
CLIMAX
The circle quakes. The ritual falters—
—but Clarion lifts her voice higher.
Felonious plants both feet, driving raw force into the spell.
Donavich’s voice joins hers, tears streaming down his face, speaking ancient words that haven’t passed his lips in decades.
Light erupts, searing, desperate, righteous.
Doru’s shriek cracks the air. Something tears—not flesh, but spirit. A shadow coils backward like smoke ripped from a burning page.
Then—silence.
A gasp.
A young man’s voice.
DORU: (broken) "Father…?"
Donavich crumples to his knees, sobbing openly, cradling his son as if afraid he’ll fade with the light.
Fleetwood lowers his sword, but keeps it ready.
Parriwimple weeps quietly.
Felonious steps back, face pale, eyes hollow.
Doru: (sobbing quietly) "It worked! His voice has gone from my head. I don’t feel the hunger… anymore…”
His body falls limp. He is no longer a vampire - but he is no longer alive either.
Donovich's sobs become louder - and Clarion joins him.
INT. BAROVIA’S CHURCH – SIDE CHAMBER – NIGHT
Background Music shifts: Donavich and Doru | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1 h D&D Somber Background Musicf
The candles burn low, their flickering light casting thin shadows against the stone walls.
Donavich stands before Fleetwood, Clarion, Silverleaf and Felonious, his expression etched with exhaustion.
Donovich: (soft, sincere, heavy with gratitude) "I cannot repay you. My son has been in this state for months, and no one here was even willing to try helping him. I know it hurt you, cost you as much as I."
Fleetwood nods, his posture still tense, his mind still racing. Clarion exhales, watching the priest with measured silence, her own thoughts pressing against the edges of defeat. Felonious clasps Doru’s hand a final time. Tears glint, though he tries to keep the others from seeing.
FELONIOUS (mutters) “Damn Bargle. His teaching failed me… failed all of us. And thrice damn the creature who did this to you.” He lays the boy’s hand back on his chest. He looks lost. He clearly isn’t used to not having all the answers.
The camera lingers—a tight shot on Felonious’ face, creased with fatigue and rare humility. His breath catches for a moment as he lowers Doru’s pale hand, placing it delicately over the prayer book, its cracked spine barely visible beneath the shroud.
The silence stretches, pulsing with the weight of disappointment and restrained fury. Candlelight flickers against the stones, casting fleeting warmth onto faces too worn to feel it.
Clarion, kneeling beside him, doesn’t speak right away. She glances toward the altar, where Donavich still prays softly, face buried in trembling hands.
CLARION (quietly) “This was never just about knowledge.”
Felonious exhales through his nose, brow furrowing deeper.
FELONIOUS: “No. It was about saving him. And we were too late.”
The camera pulls wider. Fleetwood, Silverleaf, and Greegan hold vigil at the edges of the circle. None speak. None move.
Outside, thunder grumbles once more—distant, but traveling closer.
And for a moment, within these broken walls, all their uncertainties speak louder than any spell.
FADE TO BLACK
End credits play over: If I Was Your Vampire-Lyrics