Beginning Credits Play Over: Alan Silvestri - Transylvania 1887
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
Cirian Hinds as Davian Martikov
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
EXT. - BABA LYSAGA’S HUT - DAY
Background Music: Fabomusic - Witch of the Marsh
The ground shudders.
The hill splits apart with a wet, tearing sound — clods of earth and tangles of roots tumbling into the mire below.
The shreds of the hill and the ruined hut slough away, revealing what was hidden beneath.
A thatched roof emerges from the debris, sagging over a crooked wooden hut perched atop an enormous tree stump.
The stump’s roots thrust into the air and muck like the legs of a colossal spider half‑buried in its own grave.
They flex and curl, dripping black water back into the swamp.
From the hut’s eaves hang twin iron cages, each crammed with ravens.
The birds shriek and batter their wings against one another in panic — a deafening, chaotic chorus that fills the fog.
Floating beside the hut — balanced within an upside‑down, hollowed‑out giant’s skull — is an old, gnarled woman.
Her white hair rises in two horn‑like peaks before cascading down in iron‑tipped braids that sway like pendulums, each tip glinting like a dagger.
Her eyes burn from the depths of a sunken face, and her long, yellowed nails curl inward like talons before her chest.
She is Baba Lysaga — the swamp’s mother, its hunger given form.
Her gaze sweeps over the party, lingering on each face just long enough to feel like a touch. When she speaks, her voice is a rasp — dry as dead leaves, yet carrying across the mire with unnatural clarity.
BABA LYSAGA: “You’ve had your fun, my dears.”
A slow, thin smile spreads across her face.
BABA LYSAGA (CONT’D): “Now… I believe it is time for mine.”
The hut’s roots flex, curling toward the party.
The ravens scream louder.
And the swamp itself seems to lean in — eager to watch.
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Baba Lysaga's Wrath
The fog thickens over the hilltop, heavy as a burial shroud.
Baba Lysaga croons in a low, guttural melody — a sound that crawls through the mist like smoke from a dying fire.
The mire answers.
The black water swells, thickens —
and then rises, clutching at boots and legs with cold, sucking hands of mud.
The swamp itself seems to breathe.
Fleetwood charges forward, boots sinking deeper with every step.
He pushes harder, breaking into a desperate leap toward the floating giant’s skull —
but he comes up short.
His hands slam against the bone, fingers scrabbling for purchase.
Now he hangs beneath the skull, legs kicking above the mire, the fog swallowing his curses.
Ireena grits her teeth, the Sun Sword blazing in her grip.
She drives forward on sheer strength, each step a battle against the swamp’s pull.
Her boots vanish into the muck, but she wrenches them free, one after the other, the holy light cutting through the gloom like defiance made flesh.4Clarion pushes forward through the muck, her shield raised high, protective magic flaring in a halo of pale, sanctified light.
The roots that moments ago lashed and coiled now recoil, curling back into the mire as if burned by the purity of her faith.
The swamp’s clutching hands go slack.
The mire lies still — for now.
Baba Lysaga’s head snaps toward her, lips peeling back from yellowed teeth.
A hiss escapes — low, venomous, and full of hate.
The sound slithers through the fog like a curse half‑spoken.
🏚️ Inside the Hut
Greegan hauls himself over the threshold, dragging Silverleaf in after him.
The hut pitches beneath them, the floorboards groaning like ribs under strain.
SILVERLEAF: “We have to get the ravens out!”
She rushes to the nearest cage, sword flashing.
With a single, decisive stroke, the chain gives way —
the cage crashes to the floor, the trapped birds shrieking in panic, wings beating against the bars in a frenzy of terror.
She turns to the other —
but the chain here is thicker, the iron warped and fused into the eave as if grown there.
Her blade bites, but the metal rings and holds.
The ravens inside beat their wings frantically, the sound a desperate drumbeat against the bars, echoing the pulse of the swamp itself.
🌫️ Outside the Hut
The hut’s massive roots flex again, testing Clarion’s barrier.
Lysaga’s skull‑cradle drifts sideways, her eyes never leaving the paladin.
BABA LYSAGA (low, to herself): “You’ll break…”
The words are not a threat but a prophecy.
Inside, Silverleaf’s sword sparks against the stubborn chain.
Outside, the air thickens with the stench of rot and magic.
The ravens scream.
The hut sways.
And Baba Lysaga’s gaze promises that the next move — the next heartbeat — will belong to her.
Felonious is already waist‑deep, the mire sucking him down inch by inch.
He thrusts his staff into the muck for leverage, but it only sinks with him.
The black water curls higher, threatening to swallow him whole —
and the swamp hums with hunger.
The swamp rises toward Arabelle, tendrils of muck reaching for her ankles —
and then… stops.
The water stills.
The tendrils collapse back into the mire.
Baba Lysaga’s song falters.
Her eyes narrow, confusion flickering across her face — a crack in the mask of malice.
Ezmerelda hacks at the muck clinging to her legs, each swing of her blade sending black droplets into the air.
Urwin struggles beside her, one arm free enough to slash with his curved knife, but the swamp clings like tar, unwilling to let go.
The mire churns like something waking from a long, hateful sleep.
The hut’s roots lash in wide, sweeping arcs, flinging muck and rot into the air.
The very atmosphere thickens — a choking blend of swamp‑reek and old, hungry magic.
Felonious stands waist‑deep in the sucking mire, robes plastered to his frame, staff gripped tight in both hands.
His eyes lock on Baba Lysaga, still crooning from her floating skull, her voice a poison threading through the fog.
The din of ravens.
The groan of roots.
The hiss of the swamp.
All of it fades beneath the rising hum of power in his chest.
He thrusts his free hand skyward, fingers curling into a claw.
A bead of molten light blossoms in his palm —
small at first, then swelling, pulsing, the air around it shimmering with heat.
The fog recoils from it, curling away like smoke from a flame.
FELONIOUS (through clenched teeth): “Let’s see you dance to this.”
He hurls the bead with a sharp, snapping motion.
It arcs through the air — a streak of orange against the grey —
and strikes just above the rim of the giant’s skull.
For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
Then it erupts.
A sphere of roaring flame blossoms outward,
washing over the skull’s surface and licking at Lysaga’s iron‑tipped braids.
The blast rocks the platform,
sending Fleetwood clinging tighter to the slick bone as it tips sideways.
The skull’s surface blackens and cracks,
a low groan echoing from within —
as if the ancient bone itself resents the wound.
Felonious sags slightly, the swamp still dragging at him,
but his eyes never leave the witch.
The fire’s reflection dances in her dark gaze —
and her smile is gone.
The swamp seems to shiver.
The ravens fall silent for a breath.
And Baba Lysaga’s hatred sharpens into something colder, older, and far more dangerous.
The swamp hilltop convulses beneath the weight of battle.
The skull‑platform lurches sideways under the blast of Felonious’s fireball, its ancient bone groaning like something waking in pain.
Fleetwood clings to the slick curve of the skull, teeth gritted, legs dangling over the churning mire below.
The fog swirls around him in frantic spirals, as if the swamp itself is trying to pull him down.
Below, Ireena’s Sun Sword flares in radiant arcs.
Each strike burns through the roots that coil around her, the wood hissing and blackening, curling away from the holy light like flesh recoiling from flame.
Clarion’s spectral weapon whirls past Baba Lysaga’s head, missing by inches — a streak of pale, divine fire cutting through the fog.
The witch’s answering hiss is a sound dredged from the bottom of a grave.
A torrent of reeking, acidic ooze erupts from her outstretched hand.
Clarion twists aside, avoiding the worst of it —
but her boots plunge back into the sucking mire, the stench burning her throat, the swamp clutching at her like a jealous lover.
Half‑sunk in the muck, Urwin draws a throwing knife and sends it spinning toward the witch.
It arcs true —
but glances off the rim of the giant’s skull, tumbling uselessly into the swamp with a soft, wet gulp.
He snarls, yanking another blade from his belt.
URWIN: “Hold her still and I’ll—”
A root lashes past his face, forcing him to duck before he can finish, the air humming with its passing.
Ezmerelda plants one foot on a jutting root, using it as a springboard.
She vaults upward, rapier flashing in a precise, deadly thrust toward Baba Lysaga—
The point scrapes across the witch’s iron‑tipped braid instead of flesh.
The braid whips back with serpentine speed, nearly catching Ezmerelda across the face.
She lands in a crouch, boots splashing in the muck, eyes narrowed to slits.
EZMERELDA: “She’s faster than she looks.”
The hut’s massive roots slam into the ground, sending ripples through the swamp like shockwaves.
The cages of ravens swing wildly overhead, their cries a frantic, unending chorus.
Baba Lysaga’s gaze sweeps over them all —
Fleetwood dangling, Ireena burning through roots, Clarion sinking, Unwin slashing, Ezmerelda poised to strike.
And her smile widens.
A smile that promises the swamp is far from finished with them.
The swamp trembles beneath her command.
Fog coils tighter around the hilltop, the air thick with rot and sorcery.
Baba Lysaga raises one clawed hand, her voice slicing through the din — sharp, cold, and absolute.
BABA LYSAGA: “Knock the knight from his perch.”
A massive root lashes upward from the mire, slamming into the underside of the giant’s skull.
Fleetwood is flung free — twisting midair, cloak snapping like a banner in the storm.
He lands hard, one knee down, fist to the ground, cape flared behind him.
It looks heroic.
It’s also terrible for immediate combat readiness.
He groans, already pushing himself upright, mud dripping from his gauntlets.
Clarion’s spectral weapon arcs again — a radiant hammer spinning through the fog.
But Lysaga drifts sideways in her skull, the weapon missing her by inches.
The paladin’s jaw tightens.
The mire sloshes around her boots, thick and clinging, as if the swamp itself resents her light.
Ireena drives forward, the Sun Sword blazing.
She hacks at the massive roots, each strike burning through bark and sinew.
One root recoils, blackened and smoking — but then a rock, hurled by a vine, slams into her shoulder.
Her armor absorbs the blow, but she staggers, breath knocked from her lungs.
The holy flame flickers, then steadies.
The hut groans, its roots writhing like serpents beneath the earth.
The cages of ravens swing wildly overhead, their cries rising in a frenzy.
Baba Lysaga watches it all with gleaming eyes —
and the swamp waits for her next command.
CUT TO:
INT - BABA LYSAGA’s HUT - DAY
The floor pitches beneath them, groaning like a living thing in pain.
The walls twist, timbers creaking, nails shrieking as the hut itself begins to fight back.
Every board seems to breathe — every hinge to grind with malice.
Silverleaf braces herself, sword raised, eyes locked on the second iron cage.
Inside, the ravens shriek and batter their wings, a storm of feathers and panic.
She slashes once — the chain holds.
She snarls, pivots, and strikes again —
CLANG. SNAP.
The cage crashes to the floor, rolling once before she’s on it.
With a cry, she drives her blade down the seam —
the iron splits with a shriek of metal.
The door bursts open.
Ravens explode outward, a flurry of wings and bloodied feathers, filling the hut with motion and sound.
They pour out into the fog, some diving toward the witch, others scattering into the sky. The air becomes a storm of black wings and fury.
Greegan doesn’t wait.
He’s already tearing through the warped interior — kicking aside bolted furniture, prying at floorboards, searching for the heart of the monster they stand within.
He finds it — a pulse of green light seeping through a crack beneath the floorboards.
It flickers like a heartbeat.
He drops to his knees, dagger out, prying at the wood.
The boards resist, warped and fused by age and magic.
He jams the blade in deeper, twists —
A sliver of wood gives way.
The light flares.
The hut shudders, its rhythm faltering for a moment.
GREEGAN (gritting his teeth) : “I found something. Not enough — but it’s something.”
The floor bucks beneath them, throwing Silverleaf sideways.
A beam splits overhead, showering her with dust and splinters.
The walls pulse, swelling inward as if trying to crush them.
From the corners, roots burst through the boards, writhing like serpents, striking at their legs.
Silverleaf hacks at one, severing it clean — but two more take its place.
Greegan’s dagger flashes, cutting another, even as the floor tilts again, threatening to spill them both into the swamp below.
Outside, the ravens scream.
Inside, the hut roars — a sound like wood tearing, wind howling, and something ancient waking.
The hut’s roots hesitate mid‑strike.
The mire stills for half a breath.
And Baba Lysaga’s head snaps toward the hut — eyes narrowing, lips curling into a snarl.
Inside, Silverleaf turns to Greegan, sword still dripping.
SILVERLEAF: “Then dig faster.”
The hut groans again, louder this time —
and the swamp itself seems to whisper in reply.
CUT TO:
Scene: Berez — Baba Lysaga’s Hill
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
The air thickens until it feels like something alive — something waiting to strike.
Then the vines lash out, slithering from the mire like serpents awakened by their mistress.
They coil around Clarion, scraping against her armor with a hiss of acid.
Her shield flares with pale, protective radiance; the vines recoil —
but not before leaving deep, smoking gouges in the metal.
Clarion grits her teeth, eyes burning, stance unbroken even as the swamp claws at her legs.
Half‑sunk in the mire, Felonious lifts his staff again —
but this time, his gaze is not on the witch.
It’s on the giant’s skull she floats in.
He mutters the incantation, fingers flicking with surgical precision.
A firebolt streaks through the fog, slamming into the bone with a sharp, cracking report.
The skull tips sideways, listing erratically.
A hairline fracture glows faintly with heat, spiderwebbing across its surface.
The bone groans — a sound like something ancient resenting the wound.
Baba Lysaga snarls, her voice a rasp dredged from the bottom of a grave.
She lifts both hands —
and exhales a putrid cloud of rot, thick and yellow‑green, rolling across the battlefield like a living fogbank.
It reeks of death, bile, and centuries‑old decay.
Felonious coughs violently, one hand over his mouth, but remains upright.
Fleetwood twists away just in time, the cloud brushing past his cloak like a caress from a corpse.
Ireena staggers, coughing, but her sword does not falter —
she carves through another root, the Sun Sword blazing like a shard of dawn.
Clarion’s eyes stream with tears, her breath ragged —
but she plants her feet and holds the line, light burning through the miasma.
The cloud rolls over Ezmerelda and Unwin like a wave of poison.
Ezmerelda chokes, her blade slipping for a heartbeat as she stumbles.
Urwin reels, one hand clutching his chest, the other blindly swiping at the air.
Their silhouettes blur in the fog, swallowed by the stench and the witch’s laughter.
The hut groans.
The skull dips.
The ravens scream.
And Baba Lysaga’s laughter curls through the mire —
low, triumphant, and hungry.
The putrid cloud rolls across the mire, choking the air with rot and bile.
The party reels — coughing, staggering, shielding their eyes as the swamp itself seems to exhale death.
And then—
Arabelle steps forward.
Her small boots press into the muck, but the mire does not rise.
The swamp does not clutch at her.
The rot does not touch her.
The cloud parts before her like curtains drawn back from a stage.
The stench recoils.
The fog bends around her as though remembering an old command.
She walks through it untouched.
Unhurried.
Unbothered.
She lifts her chin, eyes locked on the floating skull.
ARABELLE (calmly) : “I don’t like your gift, Grandmother.”
A beat.
ARABELLE (CONT’D): “You can have it back.”
The vapors twist midair, curling like smoke caught in a sudden, unnatural wind.
They reverse course — slowly, deliberately — flowing back toward Baba Lysaga.
The witch’s eyes widen.
Her claws twitch.
She lifts one hand, trying to wave the cloud away—
And barely succeeds.
The cloud scatters, but not cleanly.
It clings to her braids, her robes, her skull‑platform.
It sinks into the cracks of the ancient bone.
She coughs once — sharp and wet — a sound that does not belong to a creature so old and cruel.
The battlefield stills for a breath.
Even the hut’s roots hesitate, their writhing slowing to a tremor.
The ravens scream overhead, their cries echoing through the fog.
And Arabelle stands in the mire, untouched,
as if the swamp itself has remembered who she is —
and whom it must obey.
The mire stills.
The cloud of rot hangs in the air like a curse reconsidering its master.
And Arabelle stands untouched in the center of it all — a small figure carved in quiet defiance, the swamp bending around her as though remembering an older allegiance.
Baba Lysaga’s eyes narrow, her clawed hands twitching at her sides.
The floating skull dips, still listing from Felonious’s earlier strike, bone groaning like a wounded beast.
Her voice is low, sharp, and laced with suspicion — a blade wrapped in rot.
BABA LYSAGA: “Who… are you?”
Arabelle does not flinch.
She does not answer.
She simply watches the witch with the calm certainty of someone the swamp itself has chosen to shelter.
Fog curls around her ankles like a supplicant.
CUT TO:
🏚️ Inside the Hut
The floor pitches violently, as though the hut is trying to throw its intruders out like swallowed bones.
Greegan stumbles, catches himself, and drives his blade into the warped boards—
SNAP.
The dagger breaks in half.
He curses, tossing the useless hilt aside, eyes darting across the heaving interior for anything — anything — that might pry the floor open and expose the heart of the hut.
Silverleaf braces herself against the wall, knees bent, bow in hand —
but the hut lurches again, a violent, rolling motion that forces her to clutch the frame just to stay upright.
No shot.
No angle.
No time.
From the corners of the hut, roots begin to infiltrate — thick, gnarled tendrils slithering through cracks in the walls and floor.
They curl toward Greegan and Silverleaf with slow, deliberate hunger, like fingers reaching for a throat.
The green light beneath the floor pulses faster —
a heartbeat quickening.
The hut groans, timbers bending inward as though the structure itself is preparing to swallow them whole.
And outside, Baba Lysaga’s gaze never leaves Arabelle.
The ravens scream.
The skull dips.
The hut writhes.
And somewhere beneath the floorboards,
the gem that powers it all
beats like a heart ready to burst..
CUT TO:
Scene: Berez — Baba Lysaga’s Hill
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
Another fireball blossoms like a newborn sun, its roar swallowing the swamp’s breath.
Flame engulfs the floating skull, washing over ancient bone with hungry brilliance.
Cracks spiderweb across its surface — splintering, widening — until the skull shatters, fragments spinning through the fog like burning teeth.
Baba Lysaga is flung from her perch, limbs flailing, braids snapping behind her like iron whips. She crashes into the mud with a wet, graceless impact that sends muck spraying in all directions.
The swamp hisses.
The ravens scream.
And the air trembles with the sudden shift of power.
Fleetwood stands beside Ireena, sword raised, boots sinking into the trembling mire.
Together they carve through the roots that still reach for them —
the Sun Sword burning, Fleetwood’s blade biting deep.
The roots recoil, blackened and smoking.
The swamp itself seems to wince.
Clarion charges through the muck, her mace raised high, divine light flickering through the fog.
She brings it down in a radiant arc—
But Baba Lysaga, still half‑submerged, raises one clawed hand.
Her iron‑tipped nails catch the blow with a shriek of metal on metal.
The force drives her deeper into the muck, but she holds.
Her eyes blaze.
Her lips curl.
BABA LYSAGA (rasping): “You think this is over?”
The sky darkens — not with storm, but with wings.
The Martikov ravens dive in a furious swarm, their cries sharp as broken glass.
They streak toward the witch, pecking, clawing, tearing at her braids and robes.
Feathers whirl through the air like black snow.
Lysaga snarls, swatting at them with frantic, jerking motions.
Her braids whip, her claws slash —
but the ravens are relentless, a living storm of vengeance.
Half‑sunk in the mire, Felonious lifts his staff again, smoke curling from his fingertips.
The fireball’s afterglow still burns in his eyes — a reflection of the fury he refuses to let go.
He watches the witch struggle beneath the onslaught of ravens,
and a thin, grim smile touches his lips.
The hut groans behind them, its roots writhing in pain.
Inside, Greegan and Silverleaf fight to reach the gem pulsing beneath the floorboards.
Outside, the swamp churns, stirred by forces older than memory.
And Baba Lysaga — bloodied, burning, beset by ravens —
rises from the mire with murder in her eyes.
CUT TO:
Scene: Berez — Baba Lysaga’s Hill
INT. HUT — DAY
The floorboards groan under the weight of the battle — not merely from motion, but from strain, as though the hut itself feels every intrusion like a wound.
Greegan and Silverleaf stomp and kick, splinters flying in sharp, frantic bursts.
The warped wood finally begins to crack… but the hut is not a passive victim.
It fights back.
From the walls, from the floor, from the very seams of the structure, roots burst inward — thick, gnarled tendrils slick with swamp‑rot.
They smash through the boards like the fingers of a dying god clawing its way back to life.
One root coils around Silverleaf’s waist, pinning her arms to her sides.
She gasps, blade flashing in a desperate arc — but the grip is iron, unyielding, tightening with slow, deliberate malice.
Greegan dives aside as another root whips past his head.
He rolls, mud streaking his face, breath ragged —
and lands hard on his palms.
Then he sees it.
Beneath the broken boards, revealed through the splintered gap:
A glowing green gem, pulsing with sickly light.
A heartbeat.
A command.
A will.
The heart of the hut —
and it is beating faster.
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
Baba Lysaga — bloodied, burning, and furious — rises from the mire like a corpse refusing burial.
Her braids drip with swampwater, her claws twitching with murderous intent.
The fog curls away from her in thin, shuddering strands, as though even the mist fears to touch her.
Arabelle steps forward.
Small.
Still.
Unmoved by the carnage around her.
Her voice is calm and cold, carrying farther than it should in the choking air.
ARABELLE: “Sink.”
The mire obeys.
It swells upward in a slow, deliberate wave, wrapping around the witch’s legs, her waist —
a lover’s embrace turned executioner.
The swamp pulls, eager to reclaim its wayward daughter.
But Lysaga’s own magic flares, a violent burst of sickly green light.
The mire shudders, resisting the command.
She snarls, defiant, teeth bared like an animal cornered.
Half‑submerged, Felonious drags himself upright, muck dripping from his sleeves.
He lifts his staff, voice cutting through the fog like a blade.
FELONIOUS: “Or burn.”
A firebolt streaks through the air — a single, furious spark against the grey.
It slams into Lysaga’s chest.
She screams.
Her robes ignite, flames licking up her arms, devouring the swamp‑soaked tatters.
The mire hisses.
The fog recoils.
The witch staggers, smoke rising from her like incense from a profane altar.
Ezmerelda lunges, blade flashing in a silver arc —
but Lysaga bats it aside with a single clawed hand, her strength still monstrous despite her wounds.
Ezmerelda stumbles back, boots skidding in the muck.
Urwin moves behind the witch, silent as a shadow.
He draws a slender blade — a whisper of steel —
and drives it deep between her ribs, twisting with cold precision.
Baba Lysaga gasps.
Her eyes widen, black pupils dilating like a dying creature’s last attempt to drink in the world.
She reaches for him — claws trembling, grasping at nothing —
and then collapses into the mire.
The swamp rises eagerly to meet her.
It swallows her whole.
No splash.
No ripple.
Just silence.
The shattered remains of the Creeping Hut smolder in the mire, its roots limp and steaming, its walls collapsed into a ruin of splinters and rot.
The swamp around it exhales a long, shuddering breath — as though relieved to be rid of the thing that once walked on its back.
From the wreckage, Greegan and Silverleaf emerge, mud‑streaked, bloodied, and victorious. Greegan holds the green gem aloft, its faint pulse casting eerie, shifting shadows across the fog‑drenched battlefield.
The light seems to throb in time with the swamp’s own heartbeat.
Scene: Berez — Aftermath of the Battle
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Keepers of the Feather
From the sky, ravens descend in a storm of wings — a black spiral tightening around the hilltop.
They land in a wide circle around the party, feathers settling like falling ash.
One by one, they shift — feathers giving way to cloaks, talons to boots, beaks to solemn, weathered faces.
The Martikovs stand tall, their expressions grave, their eyes reflecting the ruin around them.
At their center, Davian Martikov, grizzled and sharp‑eyed, steps forward.
His gaze lands on Urwin — and his lip curls.
DAVIAN MARTIKOV: “Why’d you bring this wastrel of a son to Berez?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
DAVIAN (CONT’D) : “If he slowed you down, my sincere apologies.”
Urwin stiffens, jaw tight, but says nothing.
The silence that follows is heavy — a silence full of old wounds and older expectations.
Clarion steps toward them, armor streaked with mire and ash.
She opens a satchel and reveals the three reunited gems — each glowing with its own hue, each pulsing with ancient memory.
CLARION: “We’ve seen a vision. They must be returned — Reburied. To reconsecrate the Fanes.”
The gems flicker in agreement, their light brushing the fog like fingers tracing forgotten paths.
Davian stares at the gems for a long, weighted moment.
Then he exhales — slow, heavy, almost reverent.
DAVIAN: “Our ancestors served one of the valley’s old gods. They hid the gems to keep them safe.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the satchel — not touching the gems, but acknowledging them.
DAVIAN (CONT’D): “We knew that one day, we’d be called upon to return them.”
He straightens, shoulders squaring, eyes scanning the mist‑shrouded horizon.
DAVIAN (CONT’D) : “Didn’t expect it to happen in my lifetime — but a man doesn’t choose when the gods call his name.”
The fog begins to lift.
The ravens settle, feathers rustling like whispers of prophecy.
And the gems glow brighter —
as if they, too, know the time has come.
Scene: Berez — Aftermath of the Battle
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
The fog has thinned, though it does not vanish.
It lingers like memory—slow, reluctant, unwilling to forget.
The ravens have settled upon the broken fence posts and drowned stones,
their black wings folded, their eyes reflecting the faint glow of the gems.
In Clarion’s hands, the three stones pulse—soft, insistent, alive.
Their light is not warmth, but remembrance.
She turns toward Davian and Urwin, her voice steady, her bearing priestly.
CLARION: “The vision was clear. The gems must be buried— by father and son. Together.”
Davian stiffens, jaw set like iron.
Unwin looks away, arms crossed, the mire still clinging to his boots.
Between them, the silence is a wound that never healed.
Clarion steps closer, the gems’ light painting her face in spectral blue.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You must put aside the feud. Not for each other—
but for the valley.”
Her voice lowers, almost a whisper, almost a spell.
CLARION (CONT’D):
“Turul the Roc took the last gem.
Unwin did not lose it.”
Davian’s eyes flick toward his son—then back to Clarion.
A long silence.
Then a grunt, rough and weary.
DAVIAN: “Hmph. Well. That’s different.”
Urwin does not smile.
But he meets his father’s gaze, the fog curling between them like breath.
UNWIN: “I didn’t ask to come here. But I didn’t run, either.”
Davian exhales, slow and heavy, as if releasing years of ghosts.
He steps forward, extending a hand.
DAVIAN: “Let’s bury the damn things. And maybe a few ghosts while we’re at it.”
Unwin hesitates—then clasps his father’s hand.
The grip is firm.
Awkward.
But real.
The gems pulse once—brighter, deeper, like hearts remembering how to beat.
The ravens stir, wings rustling like parchment.
The fog recoils, whispering through the reeds.
And the swamp—
for the first time in centuries—
feels like it might be ready to let go.
CUT TO:
Scene: Berez — Circle of Standing Stones
EXT. SWAMP HILLTOP — DAY
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Ruins of Berez
The fog curls low around the moss‑covered menhirs,
slick with age and swampwater,
their surfaces glistening like the skin of drowned gods.
The stones form a near‑perfect circle—
silent, ancient, patient.
They wait, as they have always waited.
Fleetwood stands at the center,
the green gem pulsing faintly in his hand—
its light soft, insistent, alive.
It beats like something remembering how to breathe.
He turns to the newly reconciled Martikovs,
their faces drawn, their eyes hollow from the long night.
FLEETWOOD (quietly): “Well… where do we put the one that goes here?”
Felonious steps forward,
the Tome of Strahd heavy in his grasp,
its pages damp and curling like the wings of dead moths.
He squints at a passage,
fingers tracing the faded ink as though it might bleed truth.
FELONIOUS: “The Tome speaks of standing stones. Strahd desecrated the place to steal its power. But the description’s vague—deliberately, I think.”
He snaps the book shut.
The sound echoes like a coffin lid.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “He didn’t want anyone finding it again.”
Clarion kneels, her gauntleted hand sweeping across the ground between the stones.
The grass here is shorter—sickly, colorless.
The soil feels wrong, as if it resents being touched.
CLARION: “This patch is different. The roots don’t run deep. Something’s beneath it.”
Her voice trembles—not with fear, but with reverence.
Davian Martikov grunts, stepping forward.
His boots sink into the mire; the earth groans beneath him.
He squints at the ground, then nods slowly.
DAVIAN: “A slab. Our ancestors buried the entrance. To keep it safe.”
He looks at Fleetwood, then at Urwin—
father and son bound by blood and silence
DAVIAN (CONT’D): “You’ll have to dig. And you’ll have to do it together.”
Urwin meets his father’s gaze.
No words pass between them,
but something ancient shifts—
a feud loosening its grip.
The wind stirs.
The ravens watch from the stones,
their eyes glinting like shards of prophecy.
The gem pulses brighter—
a heartbeat beneath the earth,
a whisper of the valley’s buried soul.
And for a moment,
the fog seems to breathe in time with it—
as if the land itself remembers
what it means to be whole.
CUT TO:
Scene: Barovia — Searching for the Swamp Fane
EXT. MARSHLAND — DUSK
The fog lies heavy, curling low around the moss‑slick earth.
Every step sinks into the mire with a wet, sucking sound.
The air tastes of rot and iron.
The party fans out across the swamp,
boots squelching, eyes scanning the fog‑choked terrain.
The standing stones are said to mark the Fane,
but the swamp is vast, and the light is dying.
Fleetwood climbs a ridge of moss‑covered stone,
his silhouette swallowed by the mist.
Clarion moves methodically, shield raised, eyes sharp—
a beacon of twilight against the gloom.
Felonious mutters arcane phrases,
his voice threading through the fog like a half‑remembered prayer.
Silverleaf glides between trees, bow ready,
her movements silent as a shadow’s breath.
But it is Greegan who finds it first.
He stumbles into a clearing—
and there they stand: seven ancient menhirs,
half‑sunken in the mire, forming a broken circle.
The stones are choked with webs.
Thick, grey strands stretch between them like sinew,
clinging to bark and bone and stone alike.
The air smells of dust, decay, and something older—
the scent of forgotten offerings.
GREEGAN (low): “Found it. I think.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing the web—
The web tears with a sound like wet silk.
The air ripples.
The fog recoils.
And then—
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Encounter in Berez
Phase spiders boil out of the ether,
their bodies flickering between worlds,
half‑seen, half‑dreamed.
Legs like blades.
Eyes like voids.
Fangs dripping venom that glows faintly in the gloom.
They do not crawl.
They blink—
from stone to stone, from shadow to shadow,
as if the world itself cannot decide where they belong.
Greegan stumbles back, drawing steel.
GREEGAN: “Spiders! Not normal ones— they’re phasing!”
The clearing erupts in motion.
The webs tremble.
The stones hum, low and mournful,
as if remembering the prayers once carved into their faces.
And the swamp—
silent for centuries—
screams back to life.
The air ripples—
a distortion that bends light and sanity alike.
The fog shivers, folding in on itself as if the world cannot bear its own reflection.
The phase spiders flicker in and out of sight,
their bodies half‑submerged in the Ethereal,
legs slicing through the mist like blades through flesh.
Each movement leaves a shimmer, a wound in the air.
🗡️ Greegan’s Strike
Greegan hurls a dagger at the nearest one—
the blade gleams, a silver streak through the gloom.
But the spider blinks just before impact.
The dagger passes through empty air,
thudding into a moss‑covered stone with a dull, defeated sound.
GREEGAN (gritting his teeth): “Slippery bastards.”
The fog swallows his curse.
Fleetwood charges into the fray, sword flashing like lightning in a storm.
He moves with impossible grace—
a dancer in a dirge.
One spider lunges; he sidesteps,
driving his blade through its thorax.
The creature shrieks, its body flickering between worlds before collapsing.
Another blinks behind him—
he spins, slashes, and it falls, twitching, its legs curling inward like dying petals.
A third snaps at him—
he ducks, the venomous fangs grazing his shoulder,
leaving a trail of smoke where they touch steel.
Clarion raises her mace,
the Twilight Crest blazing faintly in the fog.
She smashes one spider mid‑phase—
its body half‑visible, half‑dreamed,
shrieking as it collapses into the mud.
Another leaps at her—
its pincers clatter against her shield,
scraping deep gouges into the metal.
She holds firm,
her eyes burning with holy defiance.
Silverleaf looses an arrow—
it whistles through the air,
but the spider blinks again, reappearing above her.
It lands on her back,
legs curling around her shoulders,
fangs inches from her neck.
She staggers,
trying to shake it loose,
the webbed ground shifting beneath her boots like a living trap.
Her breath catches—
and the fog seems to breathe with her.
The standing stones hum with latent power,
their runes glowing faintly through the webs.
The spiders flicker and hiss,
their movements unnatural, their hunger palpable.
And the party fights not merely for survival—
but to reclaim the sacred ground beneath their feet,
to remind the valley that it still has defenders.
The fog trembles.
The stones whisper.
And the swamp, long silent,
screams back to life.
The air ripples, trembling with planar distortion.
Reality itself seems to breathe wrong—
folding, shuddering, gasping beneath the weight of unseen dimensions.
The phase spiders flicker and hiss,
their bodies half‑submerged in the Ethereal,
legs slicing through the fog like knives through silk.
Each movement leaves a wound in the air,
a shimmer that refuses to heal.
The party fights in flashes—
steel, spell, and desperation.
Every strike is a prayer.
Every breath, a plea.
Then—
The fog parts.
And Ireena steps into the clearing.
☀️ The Sun Sword
Her armor gleams faintly beneath the moonlight,
but it is not the steel that commands the night—
it is the Sun Sword.
Background Music changes: Legend - Unicorn Theme
She raises it high,
and the blade ignites with radiant flame—
a light that does not belong to this world.
The air screeches.
The fog recoils.
The spiders convulse, limbs flailing, eyes wide with terror.
They blink once—
twice—
and then vanish,
slipping back into the Ethereal with a chorus of shrieks.
None return.
The fog settles.
The webs hang limp, dripping with dew and ash.
The standing stones hum with quiet relief,
their runes glowing faintly,
as though remembering the warmth of sunlight.
Greegan, panting, turns to her with a crooked grin.
GREEGAN: “That thing comes in handy around here.”
Ireena lowers the blade.
Its light dims to a steady, mournful glow.
She does not smile—
but her eyes flick toward the stones,
and the buried power beneath.
The spiders are gone.
But the Fane is waiting.
And somewhere deep beneath the earth,
the valley stirs—
remembering the light it lost.
The party digs in silence.
The mire clings to their boots,
the fog coils around their legs like pale serpents,
and the air hangs thick with the scent of rot and memory.
At last, the moss and muck fall away,
revealing an ancient slab—
its surface etched with faint, spiraling glyphs.
As the final clump of earth is brushed aside,
the glyphs pulse once—
a heartbeat in stone.
Clarion steps back, breath ragged.
Fleetwood wipes sweat from his brow.
Felonious watches the glyphs flicker,
his lips moving in quiet, reverent translation.
Davian Martikov and Urwin stand side by side.
Their hands meet again—
firmer this time,
the grip of blood and burden.
No words.
Just the weight of legacy.
Together, they lower the viridian gem into the hollow at the slab’s center.
It clicks into place.
The forest exhales.
Threads of viridian light flicker between the trees—
veins of emerald fire racing through bark and root.
They converge upon the circle,
pouring into the dark loam like liquid dawn.
Then the earth shudders.
Background Music shifts: Fabomusic - Zarovich Fugue
A bloated crimson vein,
as wide as a tree’s trunk,
erupts from the soil—
thrusting upward,
arching eastward,
pulsing with malevolent hunger.
And then—
They feel it.
A presence.
Cruel. Ancient. Watching.
For an instant,
the burning scarlet eyes of Count Strahd von Zarovich
pierce their souls.
Hatred.
Rage.
A promise of vengeance.
But the viridian threads blaze brighter.
They rise into the air,
wrapping around the crimson vein like serpents of living light.
They spiral—
tightening—
constricting—
And with a thunderous, bone‑deep snap,
they sever it.
The sky roils.
The vein shreds into darkness.
And the wind turns warm.
Background Music shifts: Trobar De Morte - Summoning the Gods
From the pulsing threads,
a shimmering green liquid condenses—
thick as sap, bright as moonlit emerald.
It spills into the swampy soil,
devouring the gray mirk.
Where it touches,
lush grass unfurls.
Red‑and‑brown speckled toadstools bloom in clusters.
The earth breathes again.
The liquid reaches the outer menhirs—
and climbs them,
coating each stone until the circle glimmers
with ethereal fey light.
As it evaporates,
green vines stretch from stone to stone,
weaving a canopy of living grace.
From the vines,
dozens of small, beautiful spiders emerge—
their bodies shimmering like dew‑kissed pearls.
They spin silvery‑gray threads,
and the newborn webs glisten in the moonlight.
At the center,
a small sapling rises—
its leaves glowing with viridian fire.
A woman’s voice—
soft, ancient, kind—
echoes through your minds.
VOICE: “What once was stolen, I now give freely. Accept my boon, champions of the Swamp Fane.”
From the earth,
several spheres of glittering viridian light rise.
They hover—
waiting.
Patient.
Offered.
The swamp is silent.
The Fane is restored.
And the party stands at the threshold of something old, sacred, and reborn.
The viridian spheres hover in the air like dream‑lights stolen from some ancient, sleeping creature.
They pulse gently, breathing in the darkness between the standing stones.
The swamp is silent.
The canopy of woven vines above glistens with dew, each droplet catching the green glow like trapped stars.
At the center, the small sapling sways — not to any earthly wind, but to something older than the valley, older than the curse, older than memory.
Greegan steps forward first.
His hand rises — hesitant, curious, reverent.
He touches the light.
It fades instantly, sinking into his palm like water into thirsty soil.
He gasps softly.
On the back of his hand, a small black spider tattoo unfurls — its legs curled delicately, its body glistening with viridian ink.
He flexes his fingers.
The spider does not move.
But he swears he can feel it watching.
One by one, the others follow.
Fleetwood, solemn and steady, jaw set as though accepting a burden he already knows the weight of.
Clarion, eyes closed in quiet reverence, her breath a whispered prayer to a god she has never named.
Felonious, murmuring thanks to no deity in particular — only to the strange, stubborn luck that keeps him alive.
Silverleaf, her fingers trembling as the light enters her, as though the Fane is touching something deep within her blood.
Ireena, grip firm, gaze unwavering, accepting the mark as though it were destiny.
Unwin, who hesitates — then reaches out anyway, daring the Fane to judge him.
Davian Martikov, last of all, his touch gruff but respectful, as though greeting an old friend he never expected to meet again.
Each receives a mark.
Each feels the boon settle deep within — not a blessing, not a curse, but a binding.
The sapling glows.
The webs shimmer between the stones.
And the voice returns — soft, distant, full of grace and gravity.
VOICE: “You are bound now. To the land. To the old ways. To me. Go forth, champions of the Swamp Fane. The valley remembers.”
The light fades.
The vines settle.
And the party stands beneath a canopy of rebirth —
marked by the Fane,
and watched by the gods.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits Play Over: Fabomusic - Darkness Remains