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:
Cliff Curtis as Arturi Radanavich
Jim Broadbent as Father Lucian Petrovich
Carrie Coon as Lydia Vallakovich
Kodi Smit-Mcphee as Victor Vallakovich
And
Gary Oldman as Rudolf van Richten
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
Scene: Vallaki — Vallakovich Mansion Courtyard
EXT. VALLAKOVICH MANSION — DAY
Background Music: Fabomusic - The Town of Vallaki
The mansion’s once‑proud façade looms stripped and skeletal —
no banners, no flowers, no painted smiles.
Only bare stone and the echo of a city that has stopped pretending.
The courtyard feels hollow, the air heavy with the absence of celebration.
Even the gravel seems muted beneath Greegan’s boots as he stands before Victor and Lydia.
Victor’s arms are folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched.
Lydia wrings her hands, eyes flicking toward the front doors as though afraid they might breathe.
VICTOR (low, urgent): “He showed up last night. Furious. Drunk. Almost incoherent.”
He glances at Lydia, then back to Greegan.
VICTOR (CONT’D): “We can’t tell you much else — except he seems to blame Fiona Wachter for… all of it.”
Lydia steps forward, voice trembling but clear.
LYDIA: “The people… they’ve lost confidence in Vargas. And in Izek.”
She swallows, gaze dropping like a stone.
LYDIA (CONT’D): “After the vampires attacked the Festival of the Blazing Sun — and you and your friends dealt with it instead — everyone saw who could protect them. And who couldn’t.”
A bottle shatters somewhere inside the mansion.
A muffled roar follows — slurred, angry, dangerous.
Greegan’s jaw tightens.
He knows that sound.
Knows the kind of man who makes it.
Victor’s voice drops to something grim.
VICTOR: “He’s worse than we’ve ever seen him. And that’s saying something.”
Greegan pulls his hood a little lower,
letting the city’s second skin settle over him —
but this time, it feels like armor he isn’t sure he wants to wear.
Inside, Izek Strazni waits —
drunk, furious, and carrying a grudge that could set Vallaki ablaze.
And Greegan stands at the threshold,
caught between the man he was
and the man he is trying to become.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
INT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — SANCTUARY, AFTERNOON
Background Music: Fabomusic - Van Richten (Scholar)
The light through the stained glass has dimmed to a bruised glow,
its colors muted by the gathering storm outside.
Incense hangs in the air like a memory that refuses to disperse.
The echo of Arturi’s words still trembles in the sanctuary.
Ezmerelda stands rigid — jaw tight, eyes bright with something sharp and wounded.
Without a word, she turns on her heel and storms down the aisle,
her boots striking the stone like thrown gauntlets.
The heavy church doors groan as she shoves them open.
A gust of cold air rushes in.
Then she is gone.
Clarion glances at the others — a silent promise in her eyes —
and follows, her steps quieter but no less resolute.
The doors close behind them with a hollow thud,
leaving the sanctuary steeped in tense, echoing stillness.
Ireena turns to Felonious, voice low, urgent.
IREENA: “Do we really mean to kill the best monster hunter in Barovia?”
Felonious exhales slowly, leaning on his staff.
FELONIOUS: “I certainly don’t want to. And Fleetwood will probably stop Arturi if he tries.”
Fleetwood, leaning against a pew, gives a small, grim nod —
the kind that says he’s already weighed the cost.
Felonious’s gaze drifts toward the altar.
His mind begins to turn, gears clicking behind his eyes.
He starts to pace, speaking half to himself.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “It’s a riddle. Like the story of the fox and the sparrow…”
He frowns, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.
The others watch him, waiting.
Then he stops.
The answer lands.
He looks directly at Ireena.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “You were born Ireena Strazni, here in Vallaki. But then you were taken to the woods outside Barovia, where Kolyan found you.”
His voice steadies — the logic crystallizing.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “He adopted you — and Ireena Strazni ceased to be, because Ireena Kolyana stood in her place.”
Ireena blinks, the weight of the words settling like a mantle.
Fleetwood straightens, understanding dawning in his eyes.
Van Richten watches in silence, unreadable —
a man measuring prophecy against the shape of a life.
Outside, the wind rattles the church doors,
as if the prophecy itself is impatient for its answer.
The riddle is no longer only about Arturi’s curse.
It is about identity, about endings that become beginnings, and the dangerous truth that sometimes to kill a name is not to kill the person.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — Outside St. Andral’s Church
EXT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — AFTERNOON
Background Music: Fabomusic - Ezmerlda
The church doors close behind Clarion with a muted, hollow thud —
as though the sanctuary itself is exhaling grief.
Outside, the air is cooler.
The sky hangs low and overcast.
The cobblestones glisten with the sheen of a recent drizzle,
each stone catching the gray light like a tired eye.
Ezmerelda sits just beyond the steps, knees drawn tight to her chest.
Her face is flushed, breath uneven.
Tears bead at the corners of her eyes — not falling, just gathering,
as if even gravity hesitates to touch her.
Clarion approaches slowly, her armor whispering with each step.
She lowers herself into a crouch beside her, voice soft and steady.
CLARION: “What’s wrong?”
Ezmerelda doesn’t answer at first.
But Clarion’s tone — gentle, unhurried —
loosens something brittle inside her.
Her shoulders sag.
Her voice emerges low, almost a whisper.
EZMERELDA: “Years ago, when I was a girl… I saw my parents — joined by members of the Radanovich clan — bring a struggling teenage boy to our camp.”
Her eyes drift, unfocused, seeing the memory instead of the street.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “Not long after, the caravan visited a tall, foreboding castle. My parents helped the Radanoviches force the boy inside. I never saw him again.”
Her hands curl into fists.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “My parents split from the caravan soon after. Days later, Dr. Rudolph van Richten found them — trapped them in a snare. He demanded to know what they’d done to his son, Erasmus.”
Her voice tightens, trembling at the edges.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “I overheard… They’d helped the Radanoviches sell him to the vampire lord, Baron Metus.”
She swallows hard.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “I thought he’d kill them. But he spared them — because of me. That sign of mercy stayed with me.”
She looks down at her knees, as if ashamed of the memory.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “My parents… they struggled to stay on the right path. But I held onto that spark of goodness he’d shown me. As soon as I was old enough, I left to find him — to see if he needed my help.”
Her voice grows quieter, more fragile.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D: “When I found him, he told me his son had been killed by the vampire lord. But he offered to take me as his student.”
Her fists tighten again.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “When I crept up to his camp that night, he put a blade to my throat — demanded to know if I’d come to kill him. I thought he was paranoid…”
Her jaw clenches.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “But now I think he believed I was an ally of the Radanoviches, come to avenge them.”
Her voice cracks.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “He knew what he’d done. He knew they were all dead — not just the ones who harmed Erasmus, but innocents. Children. And he never told me.”
Tears spill now — angry, betrayed.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “He let me go on believing they were still alive somewhere.
And I never asked. I worshipped him. And he — he never told me what he had done?”
Her shoulders tremble.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “All this time, the man I thought I knew was nothing more than a shadow — a lie. I thought that by following him, I could be better than my parents… But even the man I chose to follow turned out to be a murderer.”
She laughs — a short, bitter sound.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “How do I go forward like this? How can I even look at him, let alone forgive him? How can I claim any right to stand against Strahd, knowing my skills, my training — all of it came from a man who murdered the children of my people?”
Clarion doesn’t rush to answer.
She simply stays beside her — steady, unshaken —
letting the quiet hold the weight of the confession.
A breeze stirs the hem of her cloak.
Somewhere inside the church, a bell tolls —
low, solemn, distant.
Ezmerelda’s words hang in the air like smoke.
Clarion’s presence is a calm anchor in the storm.
And in that moment, the question is no longer
whether Ezmerelda can forgive Van Richten —
but whether she can forgive herself
for believing in him so fiercely.
The clouds hang low, muting what little light the afternoon offers.
Ezmerelda sits on the worn stone step, knees hugged to her chest, breath still uneven — a fighter folded small.
Clarion descends the steps toward her, armor whispering, and kneels beside her.
She reaches out, gently smoothing back a stray lock of Ezmerelda’s hair.
Up close, she sees it clearly — beneath the steel and swagger, Ezmerelda is younger than she lets anyone believe.
CLARION (softly): “I may not be the best person to tell the story. I’ve been a priestess and healer since I was young. I always reached toward the light.”
She glances toward the street, where the others remain inside the church —
shadows moving behind stained glass.
CLARION (CONT’D): “And Fleetwood — well, he’s a soldier. But the kind of man who follows his conscience before orders.”
A faint smile touches her lips, brief but real.
CLARION (CONT’D): “But Felonious… oh, my. Did you know he was once the apprentice of Bargle? The wizard who tried to rob your wagon?”
Ezmerelda blinks — startled despite herself —
a thin crease of curiosity breaking through the grief.
Clarion continues, voice calm but threaded with quiet steel.
CLARION (CONT’D): “And Greegan — I met him when Fleetwood bought his freedom from a prison cell. I’m told he was part of the Iron Ring.”
She tilts her head, watching Ezmerelda’s reaction.
CLARION (CONT’D): “If you’ve ever been to Mystara, you’ve no doubt heard of them.”
Ezmerelda’s eyes flicker — recognition, distaste, maybe even a reluctant respect.
Clarion’s voice stays even, steady.
CLARION (CONT’D): “None of us came to this fight clean, Ez. We all carry something we wish we didn’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t choose what we do with it now.”
The wind stirs the hem of Clarion’s cloak.
Ezmerelda looks down, her fists loosening just a little.
The weight hasn’t lifted — but it has shifted,
enough for her to breathe.
The two women sit together on the church steps,
the world still gray around them —
but the space between them warmer than it was a moment ago.
The gray light softens over the cobblestones, turning the world muted and cool.
Clarion stays crouched beside Ezmerelda, steady as a pillar, her voice low and certain.
CLARION: “Felonious and Greegan — they learned what they know from some very bad people. But they never let that tell them who they were. And I know they have done some very bad things, but they’ve put that behind them.”
The words settle gently, like dust in a quiet room.
Then Clarion adds, softer still:
CLARION (CONT’D): “Yesterday is over. All we have is today — and tomorrow.”
Ezmerelda’s gaze flickers toward her, then away.
She draws in a slow breath, tucking her knees tighter, arms wrapping around them.
A small movement — but Clarion sees it for what it is:
The armor sliding back into place.
Her face shifts: no longer open and raw, but composed again —
the practiced mask of the hunter.
Still, a faint flush lingers in her cheeks,
a trace of something she can’t quite hide.
She looks almost embarrassed that Clarion saw inside the shell.
But she doesn’t deny it.
Doesn’t scoff.
Doesn’t push her away.
And that, in its own way, is an answer.
Clarion rises slowly and offers her a hand.
Ezmerelda takes it without a word, letting herself be pulled to her feet.
They stand together for a moment in the cool air —
the church behind them,
the road ahead.
Ezmerelda’s walls are back up —
but Clarion knows there’s a door in them now.
And Ezmerelda knows Clarion saw it.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
INT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — SANCTUARY, AFTERNOON
Background Music: Fabomusic - Van Richten (Scholar)
The heavy doors creak open, letting in a draft of cool air as Clarion and Ezmerelda step back inside.
The sanctuary feels smaller now — the light dimmer, the air thick with the weight of too many eyes and too many truths.
At the front, Felonious stands between Arturi and Van Richten, his staff planted lightly on the stone floor. His voice is calm, deliberate — the tone of a man laying out the final move in a game only he can see.
FELONIOUS: “In the vision we were afforded by the Ladies Three… the fox became a second sparrow.”
He looks from Van Richten to Arturi, measuring the distance between them — not in steps, but in wounds.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “If you are the fox, and Arturi is the sparrow — then it seems your solution is to leave Van Richten behind and join the Radanaviches as one of them.”
Arturi’s eyes flash, sharp as flint striking steel.
ARTURI: “Join them? He killed my family. How can I accept him as one of our own?”
Van Richten’s jaw tightens. His knuckles whiten on the head of his cane.
When he speaks, his voice is low — but it cuts like a blade honed on grief.
VAN RICHTEN: “Become a Radanavich? Take the name of those who delivered my son into death —and whose crimes drove my wife to follow him into the grave?”
He shakes his head, the words tasting like ash.
VAN RICHTEN (CONT’D): “How can I dishonor their memories so?”
Silence follows — taut, trembling, the air between them drawn like a bowstring.
Clarion and Ezmerelda exchange a glance:
Clarion steady, grounded;
Ezmerelda unreadable behind the mask she’s just reforged.
Felonious does not flinch.
He lets their outrage hang in the air, knowing that in riddles, the answer often sounds like blasphemy before it sounds like truth.
The prophecy still hangs over them, unsolved.
The fox and the sparrow stand apart,
and the rest of the party can feel the weight of the choice that will either break the curse — or break them.
The air is still thick with the tension between Arturi and Van Richten, the prophecy hanging over them like a blade suspended by a single trembling thread.
Clarion and Ezmerelda slip quietly back into the sanctuary, the doors whispering shut behind them. Their presence shifts the room’s balance, but does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on everyone’s shoulders.
At the front, Felonious stands with his staff, gaze distant for a heartbeat — thinking, assembling pieces only he can see. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but it carries through the chamber like a candle flame in a crypt.
FELONIOUS: “When I was first studying the arcane arts, I fell in with a very bad seed named Bargle.”
He glances briefly toward Ezmerelda — not accusing, not apologizing, simply acknowledging the shared shadow of a past shaped by dangerous teachers — then looks back to the others.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “He taught me magic, oh yes… but also cruelty, malice, and contempt for my fellow man.”
His mouth twists faintly, as though the memory tastes bitter even now.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “When he inevitably betrayed me… well, I sought revenge.”
A pause.
A flicker in his eyes — not anger, but the echo of who he might have become.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “But in the pursuit of that, I met someone very wise — someone who told me not to let the past hold on to me. That I could be someone better.”
He exhales slowly, almost a sigh, almost a release.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “Now… I don’t know how much better I am. But I know I’m not what Bargle tried to make me.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — not smug, not proud, just real.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “I have… another family now.”
The words settle into the sanctuary like warm embers.
Fleetwood’s eyes soften.
Clarion’s lips curve in the faintest smile.
Ireena tilts her head, seeing him with new clarity.
Even Van Richten’s scowl falters — just for a heartbeat.
And Arturi…
Arturi studies him, weighing the truth in his voice, the sincerity in the confession, the possibility of a path not carved by vengeance.
The prophecy still waits, unsolved.
The past still burns in every heart here.
But for a moment, Felonious reminds them all —
family is not always the one you’re born to,
but the one you choose to stand beside.
Scene: Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
INT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — SANCTUARY, LATE AFTERNOON
The air inside the church is heavy with incense and the weight of too many years.
Arturi and Van Richten stand apart, their gazes locked, their hands still at their sides — two storms circling the same wound.
The rest of the party forms a loose circle between them.
Clarion steps forward, calm but unyielding, her presence a still point in the tension.
CLARION: “Enough. You’ve both carried this for too long. It’s poisoned both of you, and it’s given Strahd one more victory he doesn’t deserve.”
She turns first to Arturi.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You’ve survived eighteen years with the dead at your heels. That’s not weakness — it’s proof you’re stronger than the curse.”
Then to Van Richten.
CLARION (CONT’D): “And you’ve hunted monsters across Barovia… but you’ve let this wound fester until it’s become one of them.
Felonious steps forward, leaning on his staff, voice steady.
FELONIOUS: “Vengeance is a fire that burns the hand that holds it. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And I can tell you — it never gives back what it takes.”
Ireena’s voice joins his, soft but certain.
IREENA: “If you keep fighting each other, you’re doing Strahd’s work for him. And I think you both know it.”
Silence stretches.
Arturi’s jaw works.
Van Richten’s eyes narrow — but the heat in them cools, just slightly.
Finally, Arturi exhales.
ARTURI: “There is… a way.”
He steps forward, voice taking on the cadence of something old, something ritual.
ARTURI (CONT’D): “Among my people, there is a blood rite. A giorgio — a non‑Vistani — who completes it becomes giogoto… a friend to the Vistani, and a member of the tribe they join. They leave their old life behind.”
He looks at Van Richten, expression unreadable.
ARTURI (CONT’D): “If you would take that step, it would bind us. Not as enemies.
As kin.”
Van Richten’s voice is low, wary.
VAN RICHTEN: “And where would this be done?”
ARTURI: “In the place where it happened. Where both curses were made. The ruin of my family’s caravan.”
Before Van Richten can answer, Fleetwood — standing at a narrow window — stiffens.
His hand goes to the hilt of his sword.
FLEETWOOD: “We’ve got more trouble than that.”
The others turn toward him.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “Van Richten’s forgiveness isn’t enough. The dead have found us.”
A low, muffled thud echoes against the church doors.
Then another.
And another.
The sanctuary’s candlelight flickers.
The air grows colder.
The hatchet may be buried —
but the dead are here to dig it up.
Scene: Vallaki — St. Andral’s Church
INT. ST. ANDRAL’S CHURCH — SANCTUARY, LATE AFTERNOON
The pounding at the doors has faded to a low, relentless thrum —
not an attack now, but a heartbeat.
Something patient.
Something hungry.
The candlelight gutters, shadows stretching long across the stone floor like reaching fingers.
Van Richten stands near the altar, his cane in one hand, the other hanging loosely at his side. His gaze drops to his fingers as though they belong to someone else —
as though he’s only now realizing what they’ve done, and what they’ve failed to do.
VAN RICHTEN (quietly, almost to himself): “This won’t stop”.
He turns his hands over, studying the lines, the scars, the faint tremor.
It’s as if he’s seeing them for the first time —
the hands of a healer, a father, a hunter, a man who has lost too much.
VAN RICHTEN (CONT’D: “Not until we finish that rite you speak of.”
His voice trails into a mutter, half-swallowed, half-confession.
VAN RICHTEN (CONT’D): “It’s all my fault… all of it…”:
Fleetwood, still at the narrow window, doesn’t look away from the street outside.
FLEETWOOD: “If we leave this place, they’ll follow? Leave the people of Vallaki alone?”
Van Richten lifts his head.
His expression isn’t angry, or defensive —
just tired.
Bone-deep tired.
VAN RICHTEN: “They’ll go wherever Arturi goes.”
He glances toward the Vistana, whose jaw is set like stone, eyes hard with eighteen years of pursuit.
VAN RICHTEN (CONT’D): “Where we all must go. Together.”
A fresh thud rattles the doors.
Dust drifts from the lintel.
The candles shiver.
Outside, the dead wait — silent, patient, certain.
Inside, the living stand together,
knowing the only way forward is into the heart of the past.
The pounding at the doors deepens into a brutal rhythm —
not frantic now, but deliberate.
A heartbeat.
A summons.
Cold air snakes through the sanctuary, guttering the candles until their flames shiver like frightened things. Shadows stretch long across the stone floor, bending and reaching as if eager to welcome what waits outside.
Fleetwood stands in the center of the nave, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
His eyes flick first to Ireena, then to Clarion.
FLEETWOOD: “Do you think you can drive them off?”
Ireena’s hand closes around the Sun Sword at her hip.
A faint golden glow leaks between her fingers — sunlight caged in steel.
She nods once, sharp and certain.
IREENA: “If they’re what I think they are — yes.”
Clarion meets Fleetwood’s gaze, calm but fierce, her presence steady as a bell tower in a storm.
CLARION: “We can hold them. For a time.”
Fleetwood turns then, his voice carrying to the others —
Arturi, Van Richten, Ezmerelda —
each standing apart, each shadowed by their own ghosts.
FLEETWOOD : “Will you fight them together?
Arturi’s eyes narrow, flicking to Van Richten.
His jaw is tight, but his voice does not waver.
ARTURI: “If they’ve come for me, they’ll find I’m not alone.”
Van Richten exhales slowly.
His cane taps once against the stone — not for balance, but resolve.
VAN RICHTEN: “I will not run from them. Not this time.”
Ezmerelda’s gaze moves between the two men —
her mentor, and the man he wronged.
She draws her rapier with a whisper of steel.
EZMERELDA: “Fine. But if either of you falters, I’ll finish the fight myself.”
Another crash slams against the doors —
this one splintering the wood.
A cold wind spills through the widening crack, carrying the stench of the grave.
Fleetwood draws his blade, the steel catching the trembling candlelight.
FLEETWOOD : “Then let’s make them regret coming here.”
The dead are at the threshold.
The living stand together — uneasy allies bound by necessity.
And in the space between heartbeats, the choice is made:
they will fight as one.
FADE TO BLACK:
End Credits Play over: Fabomusic - Encounter in Vallaki