Beginning Credits Play Over: Alan Silvestri - Transylvania 1888
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:
Anjelica Houston as Baba Lysaga
David Dastmalchian as Urwin Martikov
Helena Bonham Carter as Wensencia (Head Witch)
🕯️ Blue Water Inn — Morning
Background Music: Fabomusic - Blue Water Inn
The taproom lies in hush.
Only the fire speaks — a low, weary crackle beneath the rafters.
Smoke curls like memory.
Felonious stands beside Clarion.
She steps forward, her gauntlet opening slowly, as though unveiling a relic.
Nestled in her palm —
the gem recovered from the mountain.
It pulses faintly, a heartbeat caught in crystal, whispering of the earth’s old sorrow.
CLARION: “We thought you should see it.”
No explanation.
No defense.
Only the quiet weight of what she carries.
Urwin reaches out.
His fingers close around the gem — hesitant, reverent.
Light fractures across his knuckles, pale and trembling.
URWIN: “Ten years since I left.”
His voice is low.
Not bitter.
Just tired — the sound of a man who has outlived his own anger.
URWIN (CONT’D): “My sons have never met their grandfather.”
He looks at Felonious.
Then at Clarion.
Then back at the gem — the small, impossible thing that outlasted them all.
UNWIN (CONT’D: “All for this.”
He doesn’t mean the gem.
He means the silence.
The feud.
The years that turned to ash.
FELONIOUS: “It’s not just a gem. A leyline anchor. A piece of the weave. And maybe - A bridge.”
His words fall like prayer, half‑hope, half‑spell.
Urwin closes his hand around the gem.
The fire flickers, throwing long shadows across the walls.
And for the first time in a decade, he does not look away.
The gem hums softly — not with magic, but with memory.
Because the true power here is not the crystal’s light,
but the fragile, human chance to heal.
Blue Water Inn — Taproom
Morning seeps through the shutters in thin, colorless bands.
The fire crackles — a tired sentinel in the dim.
Urwin stands before it, the gem pulsing faintly in his hand like a trapped, stubborn heartbeat.
Felonious watches him with the stillness of a man who has already counted the cost.
FELONIOUS: “We need you. And your father.”
He gestures toward the gem — its light crawling across the table like a warning.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “To bury the hatchet— And this.”
The words fall heavy, like stones dropped into a well.
Urwin’s eyes flick to the gem.
Then to Felonious.
A muscle jumps in his jaw — not confusion, but recognition.
URWIN : “Berez. I know that road. A man spends his whole life avoiding certain places… and they still wait for him.”
His voice is low, scraped raw by memory.
FELONIOUS: “And a little chat with Baba Lysaga.”
The fire pops sharply — as if the name itself offended the wood.
Urwin huffs a humorless breath.
URWIN: “I hope it’s a fatal chat.”
But the bravado rings thin — a shield made of old fear.
FELONIOUS: “That remains to be seen.”
He turns toward the door.
Mist curls outside, pale and patient, as though listening.
Beyond it, the road to Berez stretches like a scar across the valley.
The party gathers.
The gem glows — steady, insistent.
And the name Baba Lysaga rolls through the timbers of the inn like distant thunder.
Because Berez is not merely a ruin.
It is a wound.
And they are going to lance it.
CUT TO:
The Road to Berez
Background Music: Fabomusic - Lands of Barovia
Daylight limps across the valley, pale and reluctant.
The Luna River coils beside the trail like a sleeping serpent, its waters thick and whispering.
The party moves in silence — boots sinking into damp grass and riverstone, breath ghosting in the chill air.
Urwin walks near the front, his eyes scanning the horizon as though expecting the land to move.
Felonious mutters to himself, the Tome of Strahd pressed against his ribs like a wound he refuses to touch.
Clarion and Ireena flank the group, blade and mace drawn, their reflections trembling in the river’s skin.
Silverleaf watches the reeds.
Greegan curses the mud under his breath — a prayer disguised as complaint.
The trail begins to dissolve.
Dirt softens into sponge.
Grass gives way to reeds that sway like mourners at a graveside.
Pools of stagnant water glimmer with the bones of insects.
The air thickens — sour, heavy, alive.
Then the fog rolls in.
It does not drift.
It arrives — deliberate, swallowing sound, scent, and distance.
The world narrows to the rhythm of their steps and the pulse of the gem in Urwin’s pack.
Felonious stops, his voice a rasp against the mist.
FELONIOUS: “This place was drowned in rage.”
He gestures toward the fog — a priest blessing a grave.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “And it never stopped sinking.”
Background music shifts: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
The trail fades entirely.
From the fog, a shape begins to breathe — vast, tangled, obscene.
A structure.
No — a growth.
Vines, thorns, and branches twist together into a mass two hundred feet high, sprawling half a mile wide.
It pulses faintly, like something dreaming.
Its southeastern edge clings to the river.
And at its northeastern corner yawns a hole — thirty feet wide, thirty feet tall — a mouth carved by rot and time.
The trail leads directly into it.
Urwin stares at the hollow, his voice barely a whisper.
URWIN: “That’s not a ruin. That’s a wound.”
Felonious’s eyes gleam with grim certainty.
FELONIOUS: “It’s where the leyline bleeds. And where Baba Lysaga waits.”
The party stands at the edge of the hollow.
Fog curls around their boots like fingers.
The entrance yawns before them — dark, wet, hungry.
Because Berez is not merely haunted.
It is alive.
And it remembers.
🕯️ The Edge of Berez — Marsh Trail
The marsh breathes.
Mist curls around their boots, thick as milk and heavy with rot.
The air tastes of iron and old sorrow.
Ahead, the vines pulse faintly — veins beneath the skin of a dying god.
Silverleaf wrinkles her nose, eyes narrowing against the stench.
SILVERLEAF: “This whole place smells like dark magic.”
She grimaces, the expression sharp against the fog.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “And worse things.”
Her hand rises, rubbing her nose as though she could erase the scent.
SILVERLEAF (CONT’D): “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have this nose.”
Her voice trembles between humor and dread — the kind of joke one makes to keep the dark from noticing.
Arabelle stands beside her, cloak drawn tight, eyes wide but steady.
Her breath ghosts in the mist.
ARABELLE: “This place is the domain of Barovia’s witches.”
She gazes toward the tangled growth — a cathedral of rot and thorn.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “I always wished they would be my sisters.”
Her voice drops, soft as confession.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “But they’re not.”
🌫️ The Fog Reacts
The mist thickens — slow, deliberate, alive.
A distant cackle threads through the vines.
Not close.
But not far.
The land listens.
The reeds shiver.
And somewhere within the hollow, the witches begin to stir.
The party steels themselves.
The gem hums faintly in Unwin’s pack.
The fog curls higher, wrapping their ankles like chains.
Because Berez is not merely haunted.
It is claimed.
And the witches who dwell here are not sisters.
They are sentinels.
And they are waiting.
🕯️ The Hollow of Berez — Swamp Entrance
A flash of sickly green light sears through the fog, carving jagged shadows across the thorn‑choked walls of the massive growth.
The vines twitch.
The air hums.
And the cackle — low, rich, ancient — rolls through the mist like thunder from a grave.
🧙♀️ Baba Lysaga’s Voice
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.): “Welcome, brave heroes!”
Her voice blooms from every direction — sweet, mocking, omnipresent.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.) (CONT’D): “I’m so glad you’ve decided to play my little game.”
The fog thickens.
The vines pulse.
The air tastes of copper and rot.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.) (CONT’D): “The rules are simple: You have one hour to find me. Each time an hour passes— I’ll rip the wings off one of your feathered friends.”
She giggles — a sound like glass breaking underwater.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.) (CONT’D): “Don’t worry— To keep them from bleeding out, I’ll cauterize the wounds. With molten silver.”
Another cackle erupts — deeper, louder, coming from nowhere and everywhere.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.) (CONT’D): “Your time begins— Now.”
Felonious clenches his jaw, eyes darting to the leyline map — the ink trembling as if alive.
Clarion raises her shield, divine light flickering across the vines like a heartbeat refusing to die.
Silverleaf draws her bow, muttering, “I hate games.”
Urwin curses under his breath, already moving — the gem’s glow pulsing against his chest.
ARABELLE (shivers, eyes wide): “She’s not bluffing.”
Fleetwood’s hand drifts to his sword, but he doesn’t draw.
His gaze fixes on the hollow — the way a man stares at a grave he knows bears his name.
FLEETWOOD: “She’s baiting us.”
His voice is calm, but his knuckles whiten.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “And we’re already inside the snare.”6
Greegan bares his teeth, half‑shifted, the wolf beneath his skin stirring.
GREEGAN: “Let her come.“ (spits into the mud, eyes burning) “I’ll tear her game apart piece by piece.”
But the fog swallows his defiance, turning it into a whisper.
Ireena steps forward, blade drawn, her reflection fractured in the swamp water.
IREENA: “She wants fear.”
Her voice is steady, but her eyes flick toward the vines.
IREENA (CONT’D): “Don’t give it to her.”
The mist curls around her boots, as if testing her resolve.
The swamp groans.
The vines shift.
And somewhere deep within the hollow, Baba Lysaga waits — not to be found, but to be feared.
Because this is not a hunt.
It is a trial.
And the clock —
is already ticking.
CUT TO:
🕯️ Berez — North Fork
Fog drapes the ruins like funeral cloth.
Felonious’ magelight flickers pale against the mist, its glow trembling over the path as if afraid to linger.
The trail curves past low stone walls, half‑swallowed by moss and time.
Ahead, the cottages loom — roofs collapsed, doors rotted, windows staring like blind eyes that still remember light.
IREENA: “There’s something familiar about this place.”
Her voice is soft, haunted — the tone of someone remembering a dream that ended badly.
The fog seems to lean closer, listening.
GREEGAN: “I hope it’s not whatever I smell.”
He wrinkles his nose.
The air is thick with rot, mildew, and something older — the scent of grief that never dried.
His hand drifts toward his blade, though he doesn’t draw it.
Fleetwood steps beside Clarion, his boots sinking into the wet earth.
FLEETWOOD: “I’m with you.”
Clarion nods once, her shield raised, the faint shimmer of divine light tracing the edge of her armor.
They move forward together — two sparks against the dark.
Felonious lifts his hand.
The magelight flares — sudden, sharp.
The shadows recoil.
But something else stirs.
A whisper of straw.
A scrape of bone.
From the edges of the ruined cottages, two towering scarecrow‑bird constructs unfurl their wings.
Twisted limbs of bone and straw.
Feathers slick with tar and blood.
Eyes glowing green — pulsing with Lysaga’s curse.
They screech, a sound like rusted metal dragged across stone.
The fog shudders.
The vines twitch.
And the hollow begins to defend itself.
The constructs lurch forward.
The party draws weapons.
Felonious’ light fractures across their faces — fear, resolve, fury.
And somewhere deeper in the swamp, Baba Lysaga laughs.
Because the game has begun.
And the first pieces have moved.
Scene: Berez — Ruined Cottages
EXT. BEREZ — NORTH FORK — DAY
Background Music: Fabomusic - Encounter in Berez
The fog parts just enough for Felonious’ magelight to breathe across the ruins — pale illumination trembling over cottages half‑swallowed by moss and memory.
The silence is brittle, like glass waiting to break.
Then—
A screech splits the air.
From the rooftops and broken chimneys, two greater Strix unfurl their wings —
scarecrow‑bird constructs stitched from bone, straw, and rusted wire.
Eyes glow green, beaks drip silver flame.
Their wings spread wide, casting jagged shadows across the swamp.
They shriek again —
and unleash a hail of silver barbs, raining down like cursed feathers.
Clarion raises her shield, divine light sizzling against the storm of barbs.
Fleetwood rolls forward, blade flashing, slicing through straw and sinew — his movements precise, almost ritualistic, as if dueling the memory of a nightmare.
Silverleaf looses two arrows — one to blind, one to silence — her breath steady despite the chaos.
Felonious mutters an incantation; one Strix bursts into green flame, its scream echoing through the fog.
Greegan vaults over a wall, daggers flashing, tearing through the second construct’s wing.
Ireena drives the Sunsword into its chest, and the light does the rest — the blade singing like dawn breaking through rot.
FELONIOUS: “Silver barbs?”
He watches one Strix collapse into ash.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Cute.”
Fleetwood wipes ash from his blade, eyes scanning the fog.
FLEETWOOD: “They’re not hunting us. They’re warning her.”
Urwin crouches beside a shattered cottage wall, his hand pressed to the damp earth.
The soil trembles faintly beneath his palm — the leyline pulsing like a heartbeat.
URWIN: “She knows we’re here.” (looks up, voice low) “And she’s listening.”
The second Strix tries to take flight —
but Clarion’s mace catches it mid‑air.
It explodes in a burst of feathers and smoke.
The swamp falls silent.
Again.
The fog creeps back in.
The cottages groan.
And the party — barely winded — moves on.
Because the Strix were guardians, not challengers.
And Baba Lysaga —
is still waiting.
FOLLOW TO:
🕯️ Berez — Town Green
The fen lies still — a mirror of rot and memory.
Mist curls low across the water, pale and heavy, as if reluctant to rise.
Beneath the surface, a corpse stares upward, bloated and still, its eyes clouded with the reflection of the living.
Greegan steps back.
Just a few inches.
Just enough for the water to kiss the heel of his boot.
The corpse jerks upward — water sloughing from its limbs, hands reaching with unnatural speed.
Its mouth opens, but no breath escapes.
Only rot.
Only the sound of decay remembering its name.
Fleetwood doesn’t hesitate.
His blade flashes once — clean, deliberate.
The corpse collapses back into the water, head severed, limbs twitching like reeds in the wind.
The reflection ripples, and for a moment, the swamp seems to bleed light.
But the fen isn’t done.
From the muck, more bodies rise —
waterlogged villagers, faces twisted in eternal agony,
eyes glassy, mouths stitched shut with vine,
limbs jerking, driven by Lysaga’s will.
They lurch forward — slow, but relentless.
The sound of their movement is the sound of wet earth remembering footsteps.
GREEGAN (Snarks): “This place is—”
FELONIOUS, CLARION, SILVERLEAF, IREENA: “Messed up.”
The words echo like a prayer that won’t be answered.
The terrain conspires against them:
mud sucking at boots, water hiding movement, fog distorting sound.
But the party adapts.
Clarion channels radiant light — burning through the undead, her shield gleaming like a star fallen into the mire.
Felonious conjures flame that dances across the water’s surface, turning reflection into fire.
Silverleaf fires arrows that pierce mist and bone alike.
Ireena wields the Sunsword as a beacon — its light cutting through despair.
Greegan moves like smoke, blades flashing, carving silence from chaos.
Fleetwood wades into the fray, his strikes measured, his expression grim — a soldier fighting ghosts he’s already buried.
Urwin circles wide, his gem pulsing faintly, whispering to the leyline beneath the fen — the swamp’s heartbeat bending to his will.
The drowned fall.
One by one.
Until the fen is still again.
The water ripples.
The fog settles.
And the party stands — mud‑soaked, breathing hard, but victorious.
Because Berez may be cursed.
But they are not easy prey.
And somewhere deeper in the swamp, Baba Lysaga smiles —
for even victory is part of her game.
🕯️ Berez — Ruined Cottages Cluster
The fog thickens until it feels like breath on the skin.
Vines twitch along the broken walls, sensing warmth, tasting movement.
The party stands among the ruined cottages — weapons drawn, senses sharp.
The silence is brittle, stretched thin as old parchment.
Then—
A pulse of magic ripples through the air.
Soft.
Subtle.
A whisper meant to end the fight before it begins.
Felonious stiffens.
His eyes flash with sudden recognition.
FELONIOUS: “Sleep spell.”
He raises a hand —
and counters it mid‑flight.
The magic unravels in a hiss of green sparks, drifting like dying fireflies.
The fog recoils.
From the largest hut —
a massive undead dire wolf bursts forth.
Flesh sloughing, ribs exposed.
Eyes glowing not with hunger, but command.
Mouth twisted, teeth blackened with rot.
It lunges at Ezmerelda, jaws wide enough to take her head.
Ezmerelda spins, blades drawn.
She meets the wolf mid‑leap —
steel clashing with bone.
She grunts.
EZMERELDA: “You’re late to the hunt.”
Her boots skid across the mud, but she holds her ground.
From the fog —
laughter.
High.
Mocking.
Everywhere.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.): “Oh, clever little mage. You caught the lullaby.”
A pause — sharp as a blade.
BABA LYSAGA (V.O.) (CONT’D): “But can you catch the teeth?”
The vines tremble.
The cottages groan.
The fog thickens like a closing fist.
The wolf snarls.
Ezmerelda strikes.
Felonious scans the fog, searching for the next spell, the next trap, the next whisper.
And the witches —
begin to close in.
Because Berez isn’t just cursed.
It’s awake.
And the game —
is still being played.
🕯️ Berez — Ruined Cottages Cluster
The undead dire wolf collapses beneath Fleetwood’s blade, its body twitching once before sinking into the muck.
The silence that follows is not peace — it’s anticipation.
The fog thickens. The vines twitch. The air hums with hunger.
Then—
From the surrounding cottages, five women emerge —
hair tangled with bone charms, eyes wide, mouths twisted in glee.
Some hiss spells, others brandish daggers and bone whips.
The leyline pulses beneath the mud, and the battle begins.
Clarion swings her mace — the blow rings hollow against Mage Armor.
One witch lunges, bony claws raking across her armor, carving a jagged piece away.
Clarion stumbles back, shield raised, light flickering like a dying star.
Felonious casts Firebolt — it misses, scorching a vine instead.
The witch cackles.
WITCH: “Why did the raven refuse to marry the sparrow?”
She grins, teeth blackened with curse‑rot.
WITCH (CONT’D): “Because he couldn’t feather the nest!”
She casts Tasha’s Hideous Laughter — but Felonious doesn’t even blink.
FELONIOUS: “With jokes like that, you should’ve stuck to curses.”
Greegan slips behind one witch — his dagger finds flesh, sinking deep between shoulder blades.
She shrieks, twisting, but doesn’t fall.
Not yet.
Her blood steams against the cold air, whispering something that sounds like a name.
Ireena swings the Sunsword — light flares, cutting through fog and flesh.
One witch collapses in a heap of tangled limbs.
But another lashes out — bone whip cracking, denting her armor.
Ireena grits her teeth, stance unbroken, her blade burning brighter.
Silverleaf looses an arrow — it grazes a witch’s shoulder.
She snarls and blinks away, vanishing into the fog with a hiss.
The arrow hums in the mist, still glowing faintly, as if refusing to forget its mark.
Ezmerelda moves like lightning through the mire — cloak snapping, blades flashing.
She cuts through a spell mid‑chant, severing the witch’s focus with steel and spite.
Her eyes burn with crimson resolve.
EZMERELDA: “You think you’re the storm?”
She spins, twin blades carving sigils through the air.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D) : “I’m the thunder that answers.”
A witch screams — her own magic rebounding, twisting her face into a mask of molten bone.
Ezmerelda doesn’t stop.
She drives her heel into the mud, channels a surge of arcane energy, and the leyline shudders beneath her feet.
The witches circle — shrieking, laughing, casting.
The party holds formation.
The leyline pulses like a heartbeat beneath the swamp.
And somewhere deeper in Berez, Wensencia watches — unseen, smiling.
Because this isn’t just a fight.
It’s a summoning.
And the coven —
isn’t done yet.
🕯️ Berez — Ruined Cottages Cluster
The lead witch cracks her bone whip — necrotic green energy arcs through the air like lightning, splitting the fog. She snarls, eyes locked on Fleetwood, the sound of her breath like rust scraping stone.
Fleetwood spins his blade — fluid, practiced — then thrusts forward, piercing her side. She howls, staggering, the wound steaming with curse‑light.
She lashes out — but Fleetwood sidesteps, the whip slicing through fog, leaving only the scent of decay.
Behind him, Clarion moves with divine fury.
Her mace descends — a hammer of judgment — crushing another witch.
The body crumples, smoke rising from the robes like incense from a desecrated altar.
Only the head witch remains, her laughter echoing through the ruins.
And then —
Arabelle speaks.
Her voice is small.
But it carries.
ARABELLE: “You think you can hex the Vistani?”
She lifts her hand, fingers trembling — not with fear, but with focus.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “We hex back.”
The fog stills.
The leyline hums.
Even the vines seem to listen.
The witch laughs — shrill, mocking — until Arabelle’s eyes ignite.
Green.
Bright.
Unnatural.
The same color as the witch’s magic — but deeper, older, drawn from the marrow of Barovia itself.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “Suffer the misfortune you would bring on others.”
Her words strike like a curse remembered by the land.
Fleetwood’s sword jerks — not by his hand, but by Arabelle’s will.
It lunges forward, guided by unseen force.
The witch steps back, instinctively — right into the brambles and thorns that choke the ruins.
She screams.
Drops her whip.
The vines coil around her limbs, thorns biting deep, drawing blood that glows faintly green.
Her laughter turns to pleading.
The swamp does not answer.
The fog swirls.
The leyline pulses.
And Arabelle stands still — eyes glowing, expression unreadable.
Because she is not just a child.
She is Vistani.
She is blooded.
And she is awakening.
🕯️ Berez — Ruined Cottages Cluster
The lead witch writhes in the brambles, thorns biting deep, blood glimmering black in the fog.
Fleetwood steps forward, sword gleaming, the tip pressed to her throat.
The air hums — not with fear, but with expectation.
FLEETWOOD: “Where is Baba Lysaga?”
The witch grins.
Her teeth are too sharp.
Her eyes too wide.
Her laughter drips like oil.
WITCH: “You may wish you had not asked.”
She chuckles — low, wet, and wrong.
WITCH (CONT’D): “Beyond the mansion. Beyond the monument.
If you make it that far.”
The fog trembles, as if the words themselves were a spell.
Greegan turns.
Arabelle stands still — eyes no longer glowing, but her silence carries weight.
She looks older.
Not aged.
But ancient.
Like something remembered by the land.
He leans toward Ezmerelda, voice low.
GREEGAN: “Is that normal? For Vistani, I mean…”
Ezmerelda doesn’t take her eyes off Arabelle.
Her grip tightens on her blade.
Her expression hardens — not fear, but reverence.
EZMERELDA: “No. Not unless the blood runs deep. Or the land answers.”
She exhales, the sound sharp as a blade being sheathed.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “And Berez is answering.”
Ezmerelda steps forward, half‑protective, half‑drawn.
The fog coils around her boots, whispering secrets she refuses to hear.
Her blade hums faintly — not from enchantment, but from proximity to something divine.
She watches Arabelle, ready to strike at anything that dares interrupt the awakening.
Her eyes flick once toward Fleetwood — a silent warning: don’t move.
The witch laughs again — a sound that curdles the mist.
Fleetwood doesn’t flinch.
Arabelle turns toward the swamp.
And the fog — begins to shift.
Because beyond the mansion.
Beyond the monument.
Something waits.
And it already knows their names.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits play over: Smashing Pumpkins - The End is The Beginning is The End