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
Vincent D’onofrio as Lazlo Ulrich
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
🕯️ Berez — Goat Pen
EXT. BEREZ — SWAMP CLEARING — DAY
Background Music: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
The mire clings to their boots like something alive, black mud sucking at every step.
Fog curls around their ankles — not drifting, but reaching.
The trail widens into a clearing where a high wooden fence looms, warped and swollen with rot.
Human skulls line the top like a crown of warnings.
Each skull is yellowed.
Cracked.
Grinning with too many teeth.
Fleetwood studies the fence, blade low, breath steady.
FLEETWOOD: “Looks like some kind of livestock pen.”
But his eyes never leave the skulls.
Greegan steps closer, nose twitching, instincts prickling.
GREEGAN: “I don’t see a gate.”
The mist thickens around him, swallowing his outline.
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Encounter in Berez
Suddenly—
all the skulls erupt in a single, unified shriek.
High‑pitched.
Piercing.
Human voices twisted by madness and magic.
The sound rattles the reeds.
The water trembles.
Even the fog recoils.
Then—
a bleat.
But not a goat’s.
A monstrous, throaty roar, echoing like a horn carved from bone.
The earth vibrates beneath their feet.
From the far side of the pen, nine giant, mutated goats charge:
Eyes glowing green.
Horns twisted like brambles.
Flesh mottled, stitched, pulsing with curse‑light.
Hooves cracking the earth like hammers.
They slam into the fence—
wood splinters, skulls fall, the entire structure groans.
The pen begins to collapse.
Clarion raises her shield, bracing for the impact that feels like a storm.
Felonious mutters a spell, fingers twitching with green fire.
Silverleaf draws her bow, already calculating angles through the fog.
Ezmerelda snarls, blades ready, cloak snapping like a banner of war.
Ireena steps forward, the Sunsword glowing like dawn trapped in a blade.
Fleetwood and Greegan exchange a look.
GREEGAN: “You ever fight a goat?”
FLEETWOOD: “Not one that bleeds green.”
The fence collapses.
The goats charge.
And the party stands ready.
Because in Berez, even livestock is cursed.
And the pen?
It was never meant to keep them in.
It was meant to warn you.
Scene: Berez — Collapsed Fence
🕯️ Berez — Swamp Clearing
The swamp convulses.
Mud erupts beneath the thunder of hooves.
The mutated goats charge — nine shadows of flesh and curse, their laughter echoing through the fog.
Eyes glow green.
Horns twist like brambles.
Each bleat sounds like mockery.
Fleetwood leads the charge.
His blade flashes — silver cutting through rot.
One goat falls, twitching.
Then another.
And another.
The mire drinks deep.
But one goat — larger, faster — slams into Fleetwood’s side.
The impact is brutal, a sound like iron breaking bone.
His shield groans beneath the force, mud splashing in arcs of black water.
He stumbles, breath ragged, but does not fall.
Clarion’s mace descends — righteous fury meeting cursed flesh.
The skull cracks, smoke rising from the wound.
Silverleaf fires two arrows — both strike true, both drop their targets.
Felonious conjures flame — green fire licking through fur and sinew, the smell of burning corruption thick in the air.
Ezmerelda carves through one with twin blades, blood hissing as it touches the swamp.
Ireena drives the Sunsword into a charging beast — light flaring, the swamp recoiling from purity.
The herd thins.
But one remains.
It stands at the edge of the clearing — old, scarred, unmoving.
Its horns are black and barbed, its eyes brighter than the rest.
The fog bends around it, unwilling to touch.
Its bleat is not a sound.
It is a curse — low, mocking, evil.
The air trembles.
It paws the ground.
Snorts.
Waits.
Because this goat —
is not surviving.
It is judging.
🕯️ Berez — Collapsed Fence
The swamp exhales.
Steam rises from the corpses of the fallen goats — twisted bodies sprawled like offerings to a forgotten god.
Fleetwood stands amid the ruin, breath heavy, blade slick with green blood.
The air hums with the echo of curses.
Only one creature remains.
It stands tall.
Its horns are blackened and barbed.
Its eyes burn with sickly green light.
And its bleat —
is not a sound.
It is a curse, whispered through the fog.
The party moves to finish it —
but the collapsed fence tangles their feet.
Vines grasp.
Wood splinters.
The swamp itself seems to hold them back.
The goat lunges.
It slams into Fleetwood, the impact like thunder.
His shield groans beneath the blow, metal bending, mud splashing.
He falls hard, sword skittering across the muck.
The goat rears —
and bears teeth.
Not flat grazing teeth, but jagged, yellowed fangs.
Predator’s teeth.
It lunges for his throat.
FELONIOUS: “That’s no goat!”
His voice cracks through the fog, half warning, half revelation.
Ezmerelda dives forward, blades flashing like lightning.
Silverleaf fires — arrows slicing through mist.
Clarion calls on divine light — a flare against the swamp’s gloom.
But the creature is fast.
Too fast.
And it’s laughing — a sound that curdles the air.
Fleetwood raises his shield just in time —
fangs scrape metal, sparks hiss.
The swamp howls.
The fog trembles.
And the party understands.
This isn’t a beast.
It’s a guardian.
Fed by Baba Lysaga’s magic.
Bound to her will.
Because in Berez —
even the goats bite back.
Scene: Berez — Swamp Clearing
EXT. BEREZ — COLLAPSED FENCE — DAY
Clarion moves first — shield raised, voice sharp with defiance.
She charges toward Fleetwood, trying to pull him free from the goat’s snapping jaws.
But the beast lashes out — a vicious kick that lands square against her chest.
The impact rings through the clearing.
She’s thrown backward, armor denting, breath stolen.
Mud splashes.
The fog laughs.
Fleetwood grunts, pain flashing across his face.
He grabs the goat’s twisted head, fingers sinking into matted fur and rot.
With a roar, he wrenches sideways.
There’s a sickening crack — bone, tendon, and something darker.
The beast collapses, twitching once before going still.
The swamp exhales.
Fleetwood groans, rolling his shoulder.
FLEETWOOD: “I think I pulled something.”
Greegan steps forward, boots sinking into the muck.
He pats the goat’s flank — a gesture half‑respect, half‑pity.
GREEGAN: “Aww. I was going to name her Anastrasya.” (Grins) “Sorry, old girl.”
He sighs, eyes heavy.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “You had spirit.”
The fog swallows the words, carrying them somewhere unseen.
Fleetwood turns, offering a hand to Clarion.
She’s still on one knee, breath ragged, armor dented.
He pulls her up, steadying her.
FLEETWOOD: “Come on. Up you get.”
He glances at the dent in her breastplate, frowning.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “That racket from the skulls probably alerted every hell-goat in the swamp. Aye… and worse.”
The fog thickens, as if agreeing.
Felonious steps forward, fingers glowing faintly with arcane light.
He traces the dents and cracks with practiced ease, murmuring words that sound like apologies.
FELONIOUS: “Hold still.”
The light flickers, then fades.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “You’re probably going to need this. Especially if we run into any more cursed livestock.”
His tone is dry, but his eyes are wary.
The swamp falls silent.
The skulls no longer scream.
The fence lies in ruin.
Steam rises from the corpses, curling into the fog like prayers that will never be answered.
The party — mud‑soaked, bruised, breathing hard — moves on.
Because Berez doesn’t care how many goats you kill.
It only cares how many you leave behind.
Follow to:
🕯️ Berez — Swamp Path Beyond the Fence
Background Music: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
The party presses on, boots sinking into the mire with each reluctant step.
The shattered fence lies behind them like a broken jaw, its skulls finally silent.
Ahead, the swamp waits — quiet, but never still.
Fog curls low across the muddy trail, clinging to ankles like cold hands.
Greegan wipes goat blood from his dagger, flicking the last of it into the muck.
He glances back at the carcasses strewn behind them — steaming, twisted, wrong.
GREEGAN: “So, Urwin — what kind of feast could we cook up with goats that big?”
He grins, sharp and tired.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “Assuming they’re not full of curses and swamp rot.”
Urwin Martikov, quiet until now, finally speaks.
His voice is dry.
Measured.
A man who has seen too many things rot from the inside.
URWIN: “You’d want to boil the meat for at least three hours.”
He steps over a root, never breaking stride.
URWIN (CONT’D): “Then burn it. Then bury it. Then apologize to the land and your stomach for having considered it.”
The fog seems to nod in agreement.
Greegan chuckles, clapping Unwin on the shoulder.
GREEGAN: “Glad to see you’re still with us. Even if you’re more feather than fang.”
The joke lands softly — a reminder that Unwin is part of them, even when silent.
Felonious doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t need to.
FELONIOUS: “If the goats were cursed, the stew would probably scream.”
The swamp absorbs the words like a secret.
Fleetwood glances back at Unwin, brow furrowed.
FLEETWOOD: “You’ve been quiet.”
Urwin shrugs — a small, almost avian motion.
URWIN: “I speak when the land listens. And right now? It’s listening to something else.”
The fog thickens, as if to hide whatever that “something else” might be.
The party walks on.
Mud clings.
Breath fogs.
The path narrows.
Unwin — no longer drifting at the edges — keeps pace with the group.
His silence wasn’t absence.
It was watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
And soon —
he’ll be needed.
🕯️ Berez — Twisting Paths
The mire thickens with every step.
Fog coils low, heavy as breath.
Behind them, the shattered fence fades into memory — a broken warning swallowed by the swamp.
Ahead, the monument looms unseen, its presence felt more than seen.
The air reeks of rot and remembrance.
Fleetwood glances at Unwin, who walks with quiet purpose, eyes scanning the horizon as though reading the fog itself.
FLEETWOOD: “You know where she is? Baba Lysaga. Her lair.”
Urwin doesn’t answer at once.
He steps over a root slick with moss, fingers brushing the bark as if listening for a pulse.
URWIN: “The land’s twisted since I was last here.”
He looks ahead, voice low, almost reverent.
URWIN (CONT’D): “I think we’re heading the right way. But the damned hut—”
He exhales, the sound like wind through hollow wood.
URWIN (CONT’D): “It moves.”
The party slows.
Felonious frowns, the fog catching in his beard.
FELONIOUS: “Moves?”
Urwin’s gaze doesn’t waver.
URWIN: “Walks. On roots. Big ones.”
He gestures vaguely toward the horizon.
UNWIN (CONT’D): “She embedded a gem in its heart — stolen from the Wizard of Wines. It gave the hut life. Now it pulls itself free of the earth when she wills it.”
The swamp seems to shudder at the words.
Greegan smirks, though his hand tightens on his dagger.
GREEGAN: “So we’re hunting a witch... In a house... That hunts back?”
Ezmerelda’s blades catch the faint light, her expression unreadable.
EZMERELDA: “Welcome to Berez.”
The fog swallows her words whole.
The mist shifts.
The ground trembles — faint, but enough to make the reeds whisper.
And somewhere beyond the monument, wood groans.
Roots stir.
The sound is slow, deliberate, alive.
Because Baba Lysaga’s hut isn’t waiting.
It’s watching.
And it knows they’re coming.
Would you like to dramatize the moment they first glimpse the hut—or whether the leyline begins to pulse as they approach the monument? We could also explore whether Arabelle senses the gem’s corruption.
Here’s the dramatized scene, David—tight, tense, and with that creeping Berez menace where the land itself seems to conspire against the party.
🕯️ Berez — Overgrown Garden Path
The garden is no longer a garden.
It is a graveyard of vines and memory.
Statues loom from the fog — eroded faces watching, judging, remembering.
The air is heavy, muffled, and wet, every breath tasting of rot.
Fleetwood moves first, blade low, voice edged with weary humor.
FLEETWOOD: “Maybe we’ll run into more cursed livestock.”
Felonious doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
FELONIOUS: “Or cursed scarecrows.”
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Encounter in Berez
The fog thickens.
The silence breaks.
From between the weeds and thorn‑choked vines, they step into view —
Baba Lysaga’s scarecrows.
Straw‑stuffed frames bound with rusted wire.
Burlap faces stitched into grotesque grins.
Eyes glowing faintly in the mist, like embers refusing to die.
They block the path ahead.
And when the party turns —
more stand behind them.
The garden closes like a trap.
Silverleaf freezes, every muscle taut.
SILVERLEAF: “We’re not alone.”
She gestures toward the grass.
Something slithers there — long, scaled bodies weaving through the weeds.
The sound is soft, deliberate, ancient.
Several giant, poisonous snakes emerge, tongues flicking, eyes cold as glass.
The scarecrows close ranks.
The snakes coil, ready to strike.
The statues watch, unmoving, as if they’ve seen this before.
The garden — once a place of beauty — has become a killing ground.
And in Berez, there is no such thing as a single threat.
Only layers of hunger.
🕯️ Berez — Overgrown Garden
The hiss of serpents coils through the weeds — a sound like steam escaping the veins of the earth.
Silverleaf’s eyes narrow.
SILVERLEAF: “I’ve faced this breed before. Ancient and deadly. Aim for the neck, just behind the head — soft scales there.”
She draws, looses.
The arrow flies true, slicing through fog and rot.
It strikes the mark.
The snake thrashes once, then lies still — its body folding into the grass like a dying thought.
Fleetwood steps forward, planting himself between the party and the advancing scarecrows.
His voice is low, steady, and final.
FLEETWOOD: “Anything that wants them — comes through me.”
Clarion moves to his flank without hesitation. Despite the friction between them earlier, they move as one — shield and sword, light and steel. Each covers the other’s blind spot, their rhythm born of instinct rather than trust.
The scarecrows advance — straw limbs creaking, burlap faces grinning.
Greegan tries to mirror the maneuver with Ireena.
It’s not smooth — they step into each other’s space, timing off, breath uneven.
But there’s potential there — a rhythm waiting to be found, forged in fire and fear.
Felonious raises his hands, arcane flame blooming between his palms.
Ezmerelda steps in beside him, blades ready, her stance protective but predatory.
The fireball streaks forward — a comet of wrath.
It hits dead center among the scarecrows.
WHOOMPH.
Flames roar outward, devouring straw and burlap.
The stitched faces blacken, the bodies collapse into ash.
The air fills with the stench of burning rot.
The fire catches the dry weeds and thorny vines.
Smoke curls upward, thick and acrid.
Statues stand wreathed in flame and shadow — their stone faces flickering, weeping soot.
The scarecrows are gone.
But now the garden itself burns.
The fire spreads, hungry, alive.
And in Berez, even victory tastes of ruin.
🕯️ Berez — Burning Garden
Fire devours the weeds, crackling through the tangled roots.
Smoke coils around the statues like mourning veils.
The air tastes of ash and venom.
One of the giant snakes, scales glistening in the firelight, coils and strikes at Fleetwood and Clarion.
They move together — almost dancing.
Sword and mace.
Step and pivot.
Strike and guard.
The rhythm is perfect — a duet of survival.
Silverleaf watches from the edge of the fight, tension breaking into a faint smile.
SILVERLEAF: “Beautiful.”
But the serpent refuses to die.
Across the burning garden, Greegan and Ireena face another serpent.
Their timing falters — blades crossing awkwardly, steps colliding.
But they press on, stubborn and relentless, their defiance louder than their fear.
The firelight paints them in gold and blood.
Silverleaf turns, looses an arrow.
It pierces the neck of a third snake, dropping it instantly.
She exhales — relief, exhaustion, triumph.
And doesn’t see the fourth serpent until it’s upon her.
It strikes from the grass — fangs sinking deep into her arm.
She screams, slapping it away.
Blood wells, dark and thick.
But the venom doesn’t take hold.
Something older stirs beneath her skin — something that refuses corruption.
Arabelle sees the blood.
Her eyes widen — not with fear, but fury.
ARABELLE: “No, no, no!”
She raises her hand, fingers curling into a claw.
Her voice sharpens, cutting through the roar of the fire as she speaks a single Vistani word:
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “Shav’ral!”
Subtitle translation: “Twist.”
The serpents convulse — their bodies wrenching violently, seized by invisible hands.
Bones snap.
Spines coil into impossible angles.
When they fall still, they are broken things — grotesque sculptures of death.
The fire roars.
The garden reeks of smoke and blood.
Statues flicker in the light, their faces streaked with soot and shadow.
Arabelle — small, trembling, breathing hard — looks at the party with eyes far too old for her years. Because whatever just happened wasn’t luck. It was power.
And Berez has noticed.
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
The trail winds deeper into the swamp, each step swallowed by mud that clings like pleading hands.
Reeds whisper secrets in the wind.
The fog thickens until the world narrows to a tunnel of gray.
And then — a shape emerges.
A mansion, or what remains of one.
A corpse of a house.
Piles of stone slump where proud walls once stood.
Rotting timbers jut from the earth like broken ribs.
Empty arched windows gape like blind eyes — staring, unseeing, remembering.
The swamp has claimed it utterly:
roots threading through shattered masonry,
vines strangling collapsed beams,
moss devouring the last traces of color.
It is not merely ruined.
It is consumed.
The party steps into what remains of the great hall.
The air is thick with mildew and something faintly metallic — like old blood that never dried.
Rotted furniture slumps in corners, their shapes warped beyond recognition.
A splintered chair lies half‑buried in mud, its legs twisted like snapped bones.
A tattered rug clings to the floor, its pattern long since bled away by damp and decay.
Every sound is swallowed.
Every breath echoes.
Thick coils of fog drift lazily through the open spaces, curling around broken beams, slipping through hollow windows.
It moves with purpose.
With weight.
Like something that knows the layout of the house better than the living do.
It does not drift.
It wanders.
Silverleaf pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies the shadows.
SILVERLEAF: “Places like this… they remember.”
Felonious mutters, gaze fixed on the shifting fog.
FELONIOUS: “Or they’re waiting.”
The words hang in the air like a warning.
Somewhere deep in the mansion’s hollow ribs, a single board creaks —
too deliberate for the wind.
The fog thickens.
The trail behind them fades.
The trail ahead disappears.
And the house —
dead as it is —
feels like it’s listening.
🕯️ Berez — Ruined Mansion
The fog stirs.
It coils upward, thickening until it shapes itself into a towering silhouette — broad shoulders, a drooping mustache, the shadow of a man who once commanded respect.
The mist peels away, and the respect curdles into horror.
His face is mutilated, jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.
His torso yawns open, entrails spilling like frayed rope, swaying with each phantom breath.
The air is still, yet the smell of rot seems to seep from the vision itself — memory made flesh.
When he speaks, it’s a rasp — wet, ragged, heavy with accusation.
GHOST (Lazlo Ulrich): “So… you are the ones who have her.”
The words hang in the mist, thick as blood.
GHOST (CONT’D): “You are the ones… who have my daughter.”
The fog trembles around him, as though the swamp itself recoils.
Fleetwood’s grip tightens on his sword, knuckles pale beneath the grime.
Clarion glances at the others, shield rising instinctively, her breath steady but her eyes haunted.
Silverleaf’s gaze flicks to Arabelle — then back to the apparition, calculating, protective.
Felonious mutters under his breath, already feeling the pull of hostile magic threading through the air.
Ezmerelda shifts her stance, blades ready, poised between strike and flight.
The silence between heartbeats feels endless.
The fog curls tighter around the ghost’s legs, as though the swamp itself is holding him here — a prisoner of his own grief.
His eyes — clouded, yet burning — fix on Ireena
And in that moment, the party understands.
This is no wandering spirit.
This is Lazlo Ulrich, the last burgomaster of Berez.
A father betrayed by time, by death, by the land itself.
And he has been waiting a very, very long time.
The towering, mutilated figure looms in the drifting fog, entrails swaying like frayed rope. His clouded eyes fix on Ireena with a terrible, yearning intensity.
Felonious steps closer to her, voice low but urgent.
FELONIOUS: “I think that’s Lazlo Ulrich… the last Burgomaster of Berez.”
Ireena’s eyes flick toward him, then back to the ghost.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “He probably thinks you’re his daughter, Marina.”
A beat.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “According to the Tome, Strahd thought she was Tatyana reborn too.”
Ireena’s grip tightens on the hilt of the Sunsword.
Her jaw sets.
The ghost’s breath rattles in his chest—
If it’s breath at all.
LAZLO (rasping): “Marina…”
The fog curls tighter around his legs, as though the swamp itself is holding him here.
The ghost of Lazlo Ulrich looms in the drifting fog, his mutilated form swaying as though suspended from invisible hooks.
Entrails hang like ropes, slick and glistening, brushing the ground with each phantom shift.
His clouded eyes never leave Ireena — fixed, yearning, hollow with a grief that has curdled into madness.
Felonious steps forward, voice pitched low but carrying to the whole group.
FELONIOUS: “Strahd paid a few visits to Marina— the kind he paid you the night Kolyan died.”
The fog trembles.
Lazlo’s jaw twitches.
Felonious glances at the specter, then back to the others.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D) : “Lazlo thought she’d turn into a vampire. So he killed her.”
He lifts a hand, gesturing to the ruined village around them — the swamp‑choked streets, the drowned foundations, the skeletal remains of homes swallowed by mud — and finally to the mutilated ghost before them.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “You can see the results.”
The words hang in the damp air like a verdict.
The fog curls tighter around Lazlo’s legs, as though the swamp itself is holding him in place — a prisoner of his own guilt.
The ghost’s jaw works soundlessly, grinding, twitching—
as though chewing on rage, or on the memory of the choice that damned him.
The fog coils through the broken walls, slipping through shattered windows like a living thing. Ireena stands in the drifting gray, her voice soft, steady, unshaken.
IREENA: “I’m sorry… I’m not your daughter. But I’ll hear what you have to say.”
The words settle into the damp air like falling ash.
The towering specter of Lazlo Ulrich reels back as though struck.
His mutilated form drifts upward, entrails swaying like ropes in a storm wind, before sinking again into the fog.
His ruined face slackens into despondence — a grief so old it has worn itself smooth.
LAZLO (mournfully): “The witch spoke true, then. You do not remember me.”
The fog trembles around him, as if sharing his sorrow.
He lowers his arms, voice thick with longing — the kind that stains the soul.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “I wish to reunite with Marina’s spirit… so that her soul may finally ome home. And so be at rest.”
The words echo like a prayer spoken at the wrong altar.
Greegan steps forward, boots sinking into the wet earth, eyes narrowing.
GREEGAN: “How exactly does that happen?”
His tone is sharp, cutting through the fog like a blade.
Lazlo’s gaze shifts to Ireena — and something almost tender flickers there.
But it is the tenderness of a man holding a knife to a lamb’s throat.
LAZLO: “She withers and suffers within this false flesh.”
His voice drops to a whisper, heavy with conviction, heavy with madness.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “I freed her once— must I not free her again?”
The fog curls tighter around him, as though the swamp itself recoils.
The air grows colder.
Somewhere in the ruins, a beam groans under its own weight — a house remembering its own death.
And the party realizes:
Lazlo’s idea of rest
is the same idea that drowned Berez in grief and mud.
The same idea that killed Marina.
The same idea that could kill Ireena.
The fog coils thick around the broken walls, slipping through shattered windows like a living shroud. Lazlo Ulrich stands motionless within it — a towering ruin of a man, his mutilated form swaying faintly, entrails hanging like ropes in the damp air.
His clouded eyes never leave Ireena.
Felonious steps closer to her, voice pitched low enough for the party to hear, but not the ghost.
FELONIOUS: “I really see three courses of action here.”
He ticks them off on his fingers, each gesture sharp against the mist.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “First — we leave him to wallow in his misery forever.”
A glance toward Lazlo, who sways slightly in the fog, as though listening.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Second — we try to put him to rest.”
Felonious’s gaze shifts —
to the Sun Sword glowing faintly in Ireena’s hand.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Third…”
He lets the implication hang, heavy as the air around them.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “I’d rather try the second.”
His eyes meet hers — steady, unblinking, resolute.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “But I think it’s partially your call.”
The distant firelight from the burning garden flickers weakly through the fog, a dying heartbeat of warmth in a world gone cold.
The mist presses in, muting everything until only three things remain:
the party
the ghost
the decision
Ireena’s grip tightens on the hilt of the Sun Sword.
Its faint hum — holy, patient, expectant — seems louder now, as though the blade itself senses the crossroads.
Behind her, Lazlo’s voice drifts through the mist — soft, almost pleading, a memory trying to claw its way back into the world.
LAZLO: “Marina… come home.”
The fog thickens.
The ruins groan.
And the party stands on the edge of a choice that could either free a tormented soul —
or repeat the tragedy that drowned Berez.
The fog hangs heavy between the broken walls, thick as old breath.
Ireena stands at the threshold of the ruined mansion, the Sun Sword glowing faintly in her grip. Her gaze shifts from the blade to the towering, mutilated ghost before her — Lazlo Ulrich, swaying like a corpse caught in a slow current.
Her voice is steady, but there is steel beneath it.
IREENA: “What happened to… me?”
She refuses the bait of Marina, but she can see he will recognize no other name for her.
The ghost’s clouded eyes dim further, as though he is looking inward — into memory, into nightmare.
LAZLO: “In my dreams… a man came to me.”
The fog stirs at his feet.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “He looked like Strahd von Zarovich.”
His voice drops, thick with remembered dread.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “He warned me the Count had preyed upon Marina in the night… and drank her blood.”
The mist curls tighter around his legs, as if recoiling from the words.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “The next day, I saw the marks myself — on her neck. I thought to take her away from Berez…”
His jaw tightens, the ruined muscles twitching.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “But then I saw them — Strahd and Marina — together in a cloud of fog. I knew it was a sign.Wherever she went, he would follow.”
His spectral hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening though no bones remain.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “So I resolved to free her. To spare her the suffering… and the damnation of becoming his thrall.”
He glances away — a gesture of shame, or perhaps defiance.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “Brother Grigor, a monk of the Morninglord, brewed me a draught of essence of ether. We slipped it into her tea.”
His voice cracks like old timber.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “When she fell asleep… I did what had to be done.”
The fog shivers.
The mist thickens, as if remembering the night Berez drowned.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “That night, Strahd returned. I do not know how he commanded the river’s banks to rise…”
His gaze hardens — a father’s grief sharpened into something colder.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “But if he held such power over the land, I do not doubt he could have done far worse to Marina— had I allowed him to.”
Silence settles over the ruins — heavy, suffocating, absolute.
Only the faint creak of rotting timbers breaks it.
The party stands in the drowned skeleton of Berez, caught between pity for the man Lazlo once was…
and fear of the spirit he has become.
The fog presses close, thick as wool, curling around the broken stones of the ruined mansion.
Ireena stands rigid in the gray light, her face pale, her eyes wide — not only at the ghost’s confession, but at the terrible image of Strahd drowning a village in vengeance.
She turns her head just enough to regard Lazlo Ulrich sidelong.
Her voice is low, steady, edged with steel.
IREENA: “And this mercy you did for… me? You would do this again?”
The ghost drifts forward an inch, his mutilated form swaying like something caught between tides.
Entrails sway like pendulums.
His clouded eyes meet hers without hesitation — without doubt.
LAZLO: “If the choice is between her soul and her breath… I will choose her soul.”
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
The calm of a man who has already crossed the line between love and ruin.
LAZLO (CONT’D): “I freed you once. And if you are truly she… I will free you again.”
The fog shivers at the words, as though the swamp itself recoils.
Fleetwood shifts his stance, sword lowering just enough to be ready.
Clarion raises her shield a fraction higher, breath steady but taut.
Felonious flicks his eyes to the Sun Sword, then back to Ireena — calculating, bracing.
Greegan mutters under his breath, hand tightening on his dagger.
The fog thickens.
The air grows colder.
Somewhere in the ruins, a beam groans —
a long, low sound, like the house itself is leaning in to hear her answer.
The fog presses close, cold as grave‑breath, curling around the broken stones of the ruined mansion.
Ireena steps toward the looming specter of Lazlo Ulrich, her voice trembling but resolute.
IREENA: “Please… listen to me—”
But the words falter.
The phrasing stumbles.
Whatever she meant to say slips away, swallowed by tension and the weight of his gaze.
Lazlo’s ruined expression hardens, the remnants of his jaw tightening.
LAZLO: “Then you do not remember. And it is time to free your soul.”
Fabomusic - Nocturnal Onslaught
He surges forward, spectral hands reaching — a father’s grief sharpened into execution.
But Ireena is faster.
The Sun Sword flares to life, lavender fire cutting through the fog like dawn breaking over a battlefield. SFX: Lightsaber powers up
Greegan moves without thinking, stepping to her flank, blade ready — a shadow to her light.
Lazlo’s form shudders under the holy radiance, his entrails swaying like severed ropes in a storm wind.
Sadness pools in Ireena’s eyes — but her strikes are sure.
The ghost howls as the Sun Sword pierces him, light flooding his form, burning through grief, through memory, through the last tatters of a father’s desperate love.
And then — he is gone.
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Darkness Remains
The fog swirls where he stood, then drifts apart like a sigh.
Silence settles over the ruins.
A silence too complete, too final.
Ireena lowers the Sun Sword, breath unsteady.
Tears glisten in her eyes, catching the faint gold of the blade.
IREENA (quietly): “Will Kolyan’s spirit… be tormented like this?”
The question hangs in the air — heavier than the fight that just ended, heavier than the fog itself.
No one answers.
Not yet.
The only sound is the faint crackle of the burning garden in the distance —
and the slow, patient breath of the swamp returning to life around them.
The boggy trail winds on beneath a sky the color of old bone.
The fog clings low and heavy, curling around ankles, swallowing footprints as soon as they’re made.
Behind the party, the ruined mansion of Lazlo Ulrich fades into the mist like a bad memory finally sinking beneath the swamp.
No one speaks at first.
When they do, their voices are low — as though the fog itself might be listening.
🕯️ Berez — Swamp Path to the Hill
EXT - RUINS OF BEREZ - DAY
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
GREEGAN: “Could’ve gone better.”
FLEETWOOD: “Could’ve gone worse.”
Silverleaf’s voice is quieter, but sharper — a blade wrapped in velvet.
SILVERLEAF: “Could’ve gone without killing him.”
No one answers that.
The fog seems to swallow the words whole.
The trail bends, and ahead a small grassy hill rises from the mire like an island that has given up on sinking.
Atop it squats a ramshackle wooden hut, its walls warped and swollen with age.
The entire structure rests on the stump of a massive tree — the wood black with rot, as though burned from the inside out.
From beneath the stump, thick roots thrust down into the swamp:
long, gnarled, splayed like the legs of a gigantic spider waiting for prey.
The fog curls around them, reluctant to climb the hill.
On one side, an open doorway gapes like a mouth.
A curtain of beaded strings sways gently in the damp breeze, though the air is still.
Flanking the doorway:
Two empty iron cages hang from the eaves, swinging faintly.
Each creak is slow, deliberate — like the exhale of something sleeping inside.
Urwin stops dead.
His eyes fix on the cages, pupils narrowing.
His voice is quiet, but tight.
URWIN: “I know what was in those. Or… who.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t need to.
Greegan scans the hill, hand tightening on his dagger.
GREEGAN: “Something’s off. Can’t put my finger on it.”
The swamp seems to agree — the reeds fall silent.
Felonious exhales sharply, eyes narrowing at the hut.
FELONIOUS: “Everything in this swamp is steeped in dark magic. I can’t tell anything apart from the noise.”
The fog around his boots ripples, as though offended.
The fog curls up the hill, licking at the hut’s rotting walls.
The beads in the doorway clatter softly — though there is no wind.
Somewhere inside, something shifts.
A weight.
A breath.
A presence.
And the swamp holds its breath.
The beaded curtain rattles softly behind Silverleaf and Greegan as they slip into the hut, the sound too delicate for a place that feels so profoundly wrong.
The air is thick with rot and swampwater, tinged with a faint metallic tang — like a wound left open too long.
The hut is small, fifteen feet to a side, its warped floorboards bowing under their weight.
No furniture.
No tools.
No signs of life.
Only the cage.
Suspended from a rust‑eaten chain against the far wall, it sways ever so slightly, as though stirred by a breath the room does not have.
Beneath it, green light seeps through the cracks in the floorboards — pulsing, slow and steady, like a buried heart.
Inside the cage lies a lone raven.
Patches of bare, raw skin show where feathers have been torn away.
The remaining feathers are bent, broken, matted with dried blood.
Its wings drag along the cage’s bottom, too heavy or too hurt to lift.
A crusted gash runs beneath one eye, the skin puckered and dark.
The bird looks less like a creature and more like a warning.
Silverleaf leans toward the cage, lips parting in a soft, trilling raven call.
The battered bird tilts its head, one dark eye fixing on her —
but it does not answer.
Its wings twitch, dragging along the cage floor.
The movement is wrong.
Not the wary flutter of a wild bird, nor the subtle, knowing shift of a wereraven.
Something halting.
Something pained.
Something off.
But Silverleaf and Greegan are looking for the signs of shapeshifters —
not the strange, broken rhythm of an ordinary creature pushed past its limits.
CUT TO :
EXT. - BABA LYSAGA’S HUT - Day
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Encounter in Berez
Outside, the fog curls around Arabelle and Clarion like a living shroud.
Arabelle tugs at Clarion’s gauntlet, her small voice barely a whisper.
ARABELLE (whispering): “This isn’t right.”
Fleetwood’s head snaps toward the hill’s edge, instincts flaring.
His voice is low, sharp.
FLEETWOOD: “Something moved.”
Ireena narrows her eyes, scanning the ground.
She sees it — a subtle shift, a ripple through the muck.
IREENA: “The roots.”
Beneath the hut, the massive, rotting roots —
the ones splayed like a spider’s legs —
shift again.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The fog thickens.
The beads in the doorway clatter without wind.
The swamp seems to lean in, listening.
And the party realizes:
The hut isn’t resting here.
It isn’t abandoned.
It isn’t still.
It’s alive.
Scene: Berez — Baba Lysaga’s Hill
The hilltop shudders.
The beaded curtain rattles like bones on a string.
The ground trembles beneath the party’s feet.
From under the hut, the rotting roots — thick as tree trunks — tear free of the earth with a wet, sucking groan.
They rise, curling and flexing like the legs of some colossal, half‑remembered spider from a nightmare Barovia never woke from.
The hut pitches forward, timbers groaning, thatch shedding in clumps as it heaves itself upright.
CUT TO:
INT. - BABA LYSAGA’S HUT - DAY
Silverleaf and Greegan are halfway through the doorway when the floor tilts violently beneath them. They slam into the frame, clutching for balance as the entire structure writhes like a beast shaking off sleep.
The green light beneath the floorboards pulses faster — a heartbeat quickening.
CUT TO:
EXT - BABA LYSAGA’S HUT - DAY
Outside, a root lashes toward Fleetwood, wrapping around his leg with the strength of a constrictor.
He twists, shield braced, and wrenches free, rolling into the muck as the root snaps at empty air.
Another root whips low, snaring Arabelle around the waist.
She cries out, kicking wildly, her small hands clawing at the bark as it hauls her upward toward the hut’s shadowed underbelly.
The fog coils around her like a shroud.
Ireena hacks at a root coiling around her thigh, the Sun Sword flaring with each strike.
Holy light sears the wood, smoke rising in thin, hissing tendrils — but the grip does not loosen.
The hut groans, as though annoyed.
A root snakes toward Felonious, wrapping around his staff.
It yanks hard, nearly pulling him off his feet.
He snarls, clinging to the polished wood with white‑knuckled hands, boots skidding in the mud.
Clarion is caught full‑on — roots wrapping her arms and torso, pinning her shield to her side. Her armor creaks under the pressure as she strains, teeth gritted, but the roots only tighten, hungry for stillness.
Urwin, half‑entangled himself, slashes at the roots with a short, curved blade.
His strikes are quick but awkward, the wood resisting like iron.
URWIN: “Cut low — where they split!”
The roots recoil, but only slightly.
Ezmerelda, one leg caught, spins her free blade in a tight arc, severing a root that was reaching for Felonious’s throat.
She plants her boot against another, shoving it back even as it coils around her ankle.
EZMERELDA: “Don’t let them drag you under!”
Her voice cuts through the chaos like a spark in the dark.
The hut lurches fully upright, balanced on its massive, spider‑like roots.
It towers over the hilltop, cages swinging wildly from its eaves like pendulums of doom.
The green light beneath the floorboards pulses faster —
faster —
faster —
Like a heartbeat.
And the swamp itself seems to shudder in anticipation,
as though it knows:
The hut has awakened.
And it is hungry.
FADE TO BLACK
End credits play over: Fabomusic - Witch of the Marsh