Beginning Credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (In our dreams, perhaps)
Melodic War Productions presents:
— Grimwild: Barovia
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal
A lit candle flickers against a stained-glass window. A gust of wind snuffs it out.
As darkness deepens, faint glyphs burn across the screen—a six-pointed sigil spinning slowly.
BAROVIA
The title emerges as cracked stone covered in frost
🏡 0:09–0:20 | Village of Barovia
Wide shots of a decaying village.
Shutters closing just before you look.
Rainwater tracing veins down crooked walls.
The church bell swings without sound.
Quick flash of the Durst house - first complete, then folding in on itself
🙍♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Wanderers
Split-second glimpses of the player characters through fog-framed vignettes:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) pacing beneath the shadow of a gallows.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneeling beside crumbled bones, whispering a blessing that makes the mist recoil.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) tasting blood, testing wind, and vanishing into branches.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) scrawling arcane sigils on a bar counter with wine.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) flipping a coin by a wishing well—its reflection doesn’t match the face.
Starring
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
💍 0:46–0:58 | Symbols Beneath the Skin
A signet ring drops into a basin of dark water.
Symbols spiral outward.
A map of Barovia redraws itself in blood as unseen hands shuffle tarot cards off-screen.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note
The mist closes in.
Five shadows move through the Gates of Barovia.
The gate clangs shut—on its own.
The village beyond looks unchanged...
…but listens.
Main Title by Alan Silvestri
Fade to black.
COLD OPEN BEGINS.
EXT. BAROVIA CHURCHYARD – NIGHT
Background Music: Lyke Wake Dirge (Mediaeval English)
Fog coils like living smoke through crumbling headstones. The church looms behind—silent now, emptied of the last echoes of the rite. A low wind murmurs across the graveyard, pulling at cloaks and fraying nerves.
The heavy doors creak shut behind them.
The PARTY emerges—ashen, eyes hollow with spent will. A ritual survived. A promise kept.
FLEETWOOD grips the coffin's worn handles, knuckles pale. The burden isn't the weight—it’s the memory clinging to every splinter.
Slowly, deliberately, they prepare to dig graves for Kolyan and Doru.
MIST curls around their legs, tendrils rising like grasping hands.
ISMARK lingers behind. One last glance at the church. His father’s house of faith—now a monument to what couldn’t be saved.
IREENA watches her brother, touches his arm. No words. Just grounding.
A distant wolf howl fractures the silence.
CLOSE ON FLEETWOOD as he kneels by the grave, placing the coffin down. He exhales—short, sharp, and final.
FLEETWOOD (softly) “Sleep now, Burgomaster. We hold the line.”
The party gathers. No fanfare. Just grief, resolve, and the scent of earth.
EXT. GRAVEYARD BEHIND BAROVIA CHURCH – NIGHTFALL
The dying light filters through branches like blood through gauze. Cracked tombstones crowd the clearing. The soil resists the shovel.
Donavich stands beside the open grave, his hymn to the Morninglord wavering through tears. Not beautiful—just raw, human.
The PARTY labors in reverent silence.
FLEETWOOD shovels with military precision, mail coat draped over a crooked tombstone. Each scoop a vow.
PARRIWIMPLE slams a pickaxe into stubborn earth—clumsy, resolute. Sparks against granite. The sound echoes.
CLARION kneels, brushing aside debris. Her rites are soft, spoken into the earth. Her holy symbol gleams weakly on moss.
GREEGAN watches from beneath the church’s cracked archway. His stance is closed—arms crossed, fingers drumming against dagger steel. His gaze never lowers.
Above them: BATS hang in perfect formation. Not wildlife. Not coincidence.
One twitches.
GREEGAN crouches at a worn grave, marking it with ash. The symbol is primitive, intentional. He speaks without looking:
GREEGAN (flat) “We’re not burying men. We’re painting a target.”
Fleetwood offers a solemn salute. The final shovel lands. The grave closes.
SILVERLEAF circles the perimeter, bow slung but ready. Her steps are measured. Her attention is elsewhere.
The bats follow her.
Lantern light reflects from their eyes a fraction too late. Wrong.
She whispers in Elvish:
SILVERLEAF “Áquenta i heru nalyë: latwa lúrë nárë yára.” (subtitled) “Tell your master his tricks stink of old fear.”
She crouches. Etches a warding sigil into the damp earth beside a grave. Simple. Sharp. A warning.
One bat breaks formation and spirals into the dark.
SILVERLEAF watches. She does not follow. Not yet.
To CLARION, low and steady:
SILVERLEAF: “The draugmir is watching us. See the bats?”
The sky is beginning to bleed into gray—no warmth, just the absence of dark. The final shovelfuls of earth settle heavy over the graves. The bats are gone, but their absence feels observed. Dew grips the iron fence. Headstones glisten like forgotten sorrow.
The PARTY drifts toward the gate—silent, heavy.
DONAVICH touches CLARION’S arm. Gentle. Hesitant.
DONAVICH: “Clarion… before you go. May I speak with you?”
She nods. They step aside—toward the chapel’s leaning wall. The mist coils low around their feet.
DONAVICH (soft): “You spoke kindly when my faith was failing. I’ve one truth left—though it may sound like madness.”
Clarion meets his eyes. Listening.
DONAVICH: “There’s a place. West of here. The Abbey of Saint Markovia. In the mountains. Once… sacred. Even the Count kept his distance. If it stands, it may still remember the light.”
Clarion takes this in. Silent. Weighing.
Donavich hesitates.
DONAVICH: “And something else. A superstition, maybe. But one I’ve never seen disproven.”
(He leans closer.)
DONAVICH: “Red-haired women—they say they draw ruin. Wake things best left dreaming.”
Clarion flinches, subtly. Not in fear—understanding.
DONAVICH: “You travel with one. She’s brave. Good. But this valley marks such women… deeper than they know.”
No name spoken. No need.
Clarion sets her jaw. Protective. Steady.
CLARION : “She bears it well. I’ll watch over her.” (She looks for a moment at Fleetwood, as if she wants to say ‘we’, but can’t quite)
Donavich nods—worn, grateful.
DONAVICH: “Bless you, child. May the Morninglord light what’s left of the road.”
They part without ceremony. The mist closes—soft, remembering.
EXT. VILLAGE STREETS – EARLY MORNING
Background music shifts: Village of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The mist parts slowly as the party walks. The light is bruised—too gentle for peace. Dew stains the cobblestones like old tears.
IREENA moves ahead, cloak tight, eyes scanning the shuttered houses. Each window a witness. Each home asleep and unwelcoming.
PARRIWIMPLE leans toward FLEETWOOD, murmuring an attempt at humor. It falters. They keep walking.
Ahead— THE BURGOMASTER’S MANSION hunches against the sky. Spires bent. Windows dim.
IREENA slows. Turns.
IREENA: “Thank you for walking with me. I needed to see it again. The church. Donavich. My home. His.”
She adjusts her satchel. Her voice softens.
IREENA: “I’ll be ready to leave by noon. Just need to say goodbye… to the things no one else remembers.”
She gestures toward the mansion’s sagging steps.
IREENA: “You’re welcome to wait inside. Plenty of dust. Fewer rats than you'd guess. Or explore the village if it calls to you. Just… don’t linger past the bell. The mist likes travelers who dawdle.”
She offers a smile—not theatrical, not tragic. Just real. She disappears inside. The door stays open.
WIDE SHOT — The party stands in silence. The house absorbs her.
FROM ABOVE — A lone crow calls from the rooftop spire. Watching.
EXT. VILLAGE SQUARE – MORNING MIST
The fog is thinner than usual, but the streets carry a tension like pulled thread. The townsfolk move quickly, eyes flicking to rooftops and alleyways. One man hurls a rock at a cluster of bats hanging under a gutter, shouting something in Barovian. The bats scatter shrieking.
Down the lane, a woman drops a bucket, stomping a rat with a broken heel. Children yank scarecrow bits into piles, muttering about “eyes in straw.”
Fleetwood slows his stride, watching the flurry.
FLEETWOOD: (quietly, to Clarion) “They’re scared. More than usual.”
SILVERLEAF kneels by a corner, running fingers through powdered chalk drawn in the shape of a warding rune.
SILVERLEAF: (softly)“They're not just afraid. They're cleaning. Every eye they think the draugmir might use.” (glancing up) “He can't see through what’s not there.”
CLARION nods absently, watching a child chase a crow off a rooftop with a slingshot.
INT. BILDRATH’S MERCANTILE – SHORTLY AFTER
The door creaks as they enter. Bildrath looks up from a ledger, one eye squinting.
PARIWIMPLE: (grinning) “Uncle!”
Bildrath frowns—but there’s no sharpness in it this time.
BILDRATH: (gruffly) “Heard what you tried to do for the priest’s boy. That sort of thing used to be called ‘heroism,’ once.”
He waves them toward the shelves of overpriced gear.
BILDRATH: “Today only… I’ll give it to you for half again as much as I got it for.”
FELONIOUS quirks a brow.
FELONIOUS: “A charitable soul. I’ll alert the bards.”
Bildrath grumbles, but a faint smile betrays him as he watches Parriwimple beam.
EXT. ALLEY BEHIND THE MERCANTILE – MOMENTS LATER
Fleetwood and Clarion walk in silence, arms brushing. The air is heavy with the weight of unspoken things.
He chuckles softly as they step beneath a flowering trellis.
FLEETWOOD: (gently) : “You remember the rose garden in Silvershade? You said the blossoms were—"
CLARION stops. Turns. Her eyes brim—not with romance, but something rawer.
CLARION: (sharply) “Don’t.”
Fleetwood blinks. The air tightens.
CLARION: (quieter, but cold) “You left me. During the siege. I was so sick after that thing breathed in my face. I couldn't move, I felt death in my veins. I reached for you and you weren’t there.”
FLEETWOOD: (stung, defensive) “I was trying to hold the square.”
CLARION: “And I was struck with the plague.”
A pause.
He steps closer. She takes a step back.
FLEETWOOD: “I didn’t—Clarion, I didn’t know how to help you.”
CLARION: (cutting) “You didn’t try.”
He watches her walk away, jaw clenched. The roses above wilt in silence.
Fleetwood: (quiet, clipped) "You think I chose not to be there?"
Clarion wheels around, eyes flashing.
Clarion: "You chose to hold a line that no one asked you to. The darkness all but claimed me—and you weren’t there."
Fleetwood: "I thought - I feared… you were already…"
That lands with more force than intended. Silence.
A scuff of boots breaks the air—Silverleaf rounds the corner first, hood lowered, ears twitching.
Silverleaf: (softly) "What is this noise doing out in the open?"
Felonious appears next, already annoyed.
Felonious: "The mists are listening, children. Do you really want to feed them your pain?"
Clarion turns toward them, breathing hard.
Clarion: (angrily) "He abandoned me. And now he wants to walk beside me like nothing’s changed."
Fleetwood: **"I didn’t abandon you—I had to—"
Parriwimple stumbles into view, eyes wide and uncertain.
Parriwimple: "Um. Should we… maybe… do this not in a haunted alley full of invisible vampires?"
Silverleaf glances between them, arms crossed, but her tone is gentler now.
Silverleaf: "I’ve seen friendships lost in quieter arguments than this."(beat) "You both nearly died. Don’t let survival become your enemy now."
Felonious rubs his temples.
Felonious: (muttering) "Gods help me, this is why I never travel with paladins or people with feelings."
Clarion finally turns away, biting back a response.
Fleetwood takes a slow breath.
Fleetwood: (Turns away himself) "I didn’t stay. I promised her I’d always protect -"
A hush. Even the wind holds back.
Clarion doesn’t speak. But she doesn’t walk away either.
The party stands together now—in a broken circle. Not mended. But breathing.
EXT. EDGE OF THE VILLAGE – LATE AFTERNOON
The party has gone quiet—each tending to gear, restocking waterskins, studying the road west. The mist hangs lower now, curling around roots and boots.
Silverleaf walks softly beside Clarion, who’s kneeling beneath the moss-covered statue of a saint whose name is long lost. The cleric’s fingers toy absently with her holy symbol, her eyes somewhere far from this broken village.
Silverleaf doesn’t speak at first. She crouches beside her, glancing toward the square—toward Fleetwood, who stands beneath the arched frame of a ruined archway, sword across his back, gaze averted.
SILVERLEAF: (gentle) “You know he wasn’t hiding. He didn’t run. The square was… where he was needed. He could no more ignore that than you can ignore the voice of Chardastes.”
Clarion doesn’t look up.
SILVERLEAF: (softer)“He’s not a healer, Clarion. But he bought time. Held back one of those… things before it could get to the children by the baker’s. The villagers said he fought like their Morninglord himself.”
Clarion’s jaw tightens.
CLARION: (quiet, sharp) “And while he played hero, I was dying. Alone.”
SILVERLEAF watches her quietly, head tilting slightly.
SILVERLEAF: (measured) “He protects everyone. It’s in his nature. Always the shield in the breach between them" (She indicates the Barovians) "And that." (She indicates the castle on the crag)
A pause.
SILVERLEAF: “He will always choose the many over the one. Isn't that one thing you love about him? But I don’t think he can ever forgive himself for choosing the many over you.”
CLARION finally looks up. Her eyes are dry but hollowed.
The wind catches the ends of Silverleaf’s braids, tugging them gently toward the west.
SILVERLEAF: (softly) “Maybe we should ask why you wanted him to.”
A long silence.
Clarion closes her eyes. Grips the holy symbol tighter. She has no answer.
The bells of Barovia chime once—thin and brittle through the fog.
EXT. VILLAGE GATE – HIGH NOON
The sun strains overhead, white and weary. Mist scatters light, not warmth.
The PARTY gathers. Horses stir. Armor glints dull. ISMARK clasps PARRIWIMPLE’S shoulder, offering weighty words.
FLEETWOOD joins. His voice is quiet steel.
FLEETWOOD: “You’re the bulwark now, lad. The wall between this village and whatever Strahd sends next. Keep them safe. That’s how we win—day by day.”
PARRIWIMPLE puffs up, brave and brittle.
PARRIWIMPLE: “I’ll be the wall! A walking fortress!”
FLEETWOOD (dry chuckle): “Just don’t try to walk through one.”
A flicker of laughter. Fleeting.
Nearby, GREEGAN sharpens steel. He glances up.
GREEGAN: Wait… where’s Ireena?
Silence. CLARION and FELONIOUS, simultaneous:
CLARION & FELONIOUS: “Shit!”
[MONTAGE: “WHERE SHE WENT” – HORROR EPISODE BEAT]
Background music shifts: Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop
EXT. VILLAGE STREETS – MIST RECLAIMING SPACE
FELONIOUS bursts from the mansion.
FELONIOUS : “Not inside. Her room’s empty.”
FLEETWOOD bolts. CLARION clutches her cloak. PARRIWIMPLE trips into a run.
The bell in the square tolls—once.
QUICK CUTS:
Windows slam shut.
Bats scatter from rooftops.
A doll drops from a child's hand, forgotten in the dust.
A shape—nothing definite—slides past a far alley.
CLARION gasps, searching rooftops. FELONIOUS mutters spells under breath.
SILVERLEAF lifts her head, eyes narrowed. She senses something—just beyond the veil.
EXT. BILDRATH’S MERCANTILE - AFTERNOON
Silverleaf scans the rafters and awnings.
Greegan pounds on the side door.
BILDRATH (offscreen): (gruffly) “She’s not here! And if she was, I’d charge double just to tell you!”
GREEGAN (mutters): “Still a bastard. Good to know some things don’t change.”
EXT. BURGOMASTER’S MANSION – AGAIN
Ismark stands at the threshold, frowning as the party returns. He shakes his head.
ISMARK: “No one’s seen her since sunrise.”
Clarion exhales sharply.
Fleetwood punches the doorframe in frustration.
INT. BLOOD ON THE VINE TAVERN – MOMENTS LATER
The tavern is mostly empty save for old smoke and old rumors.
Parriwimple scans the booths.
Fleetwood questions the barkeep.
Barkeep: (shrugging) “Redhead? No. Not in here. Not since she told off that Vistani who offered her a coin.”
Greegan lifts a stool just enough to throw it—then thinks better of it.
EXT. NORTH ROAD OUT OF TOWN – FINAL MOMENT
The others are catching their breath, weary, worried.
Clarion stops.
Her eyes fix on the ridge to the north—where a lonely knoll rises from the fog, crowned with a single twisted tree.
Her jaw tightens.
EXT. LUGDANA’S KNOLL – MINUTES LATER
Ireena Kolyana (Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Theme | Loop
The hill is quiet. Sacred. The wind whispers as though in prayer.
Ireena kneels at the tree’s base, her cloak pooled around her, hair tangled in the breeze. Her sword lies beside her—laid down, but not discarded.
Her lips move with no sound. Her hand rests on the bark of the tree—like she’s asking it a question that no one else can hear.
Clarion steps slowly up the hill, heart pounding, relief tangled with quiet fury.
The music swells. The wind carries the chimes of mourning bells.
She stops just behind her.
CLARION: (gentle, firm) “You scared the hell out of us.”
IREENA doesn’t turn.
But she whispers:
“Good. Then we’re even.”
The wind moves gently now, brushing the grass in circles around the twisted, reaching tree at the crown of the hill. Clarion stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching as Ireena kneels at the base, her traveling cloak pulled aside.
With measured care, Ireena uses a rusted garden trowel, digging into the soft patch of earth between the roots—her breath steady, her face unreadable.
CLARION: (quietly) “You were always going to come here, weren’t you?”
IREENA: (without looking up) “If I’d told you, you might’ve tried to stop me.”
The trowel scrapes softly. Then—a click. She sets the tool down, brushes earth aside with her bare hands, and lifts out a small wooden box, bound in twine and stained dark with age.
She opens it.
Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, rest:
A silver bracelet set with seven soft-colored gemstones.
A pressed aster, flattened but vivid against parchment.
A wooden charm, shaped like a yarrow bloom, strung on worn leather.
A handkerchief, embroidered with curling floral patterns in lavender thread.
Ireena doesn’t speak immediately. She holds each item like a priestess at an altar, and only when Clarion slowly kneels beside her does she begin.
IREENA: (softly) “The aster… I pressed it when I was very young. With her - Maresa. She's the only mother I can remember - the woman who sang to me—whose hair I remember brushing. She was warm, and she smelled like dried thyme and paper.”
She sets the flower down with reverence.
IREENA: “The yarrow charm and this handkerchief—they were hers. My father said she was apprenticed in the healer’s guild, long before she came to Barovia. She never spoke of where from.”
Clarion glances at the charm, running her thumb along the leather cord. She says nothing.
Ireena lifts the bracelet last, light catching on its worn silver and mismatched stones.
IREENA: “This… I don’t know.” (a pause) “Father told me I was clutching it when he found me—lost and hungry in the woods, near the pillar stone of that accursed castle. He never knew where it came from. Neither do I.”
She turns the bracelet in her hand once, then holds it toward Clarion.
IREENA: (wry smile): “Feel free to interpret it as a portent. Everyone else does.”
Clarion doesn’t take it—but she does place her hand gently over Ireena’s.
CLARION: “Not a portent. Maybe just… a memory waiting for a name.”
EXT. SVÁLICH ROAD – LATE AFTERNOON
Background Music Shifts: Old Svalich Road | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The fog-masked sun slouches westward, casting Barovia in bruised gold and ash. Behind the party, the village recedes into mist and memory—its spires swallowed, its silence too familiar.
The Old Svalich Road stretches out before them like a scar carved through ancient forest, rimmed by gnarled trees and creeping vines that sway in breezeless air.
WIDE SHOT —
The PARTY sets out, cloaks drawn, shadows long despite the waning light.
CLARION rides stiffly beside FLEETWOOD, the gap between them deliberate—neither wide enough to mark a break, nor narrow enough to speak of peace.
She keeps her gaze forward.
He glances toward her once.
Then again.
Says nothing.
His hand flexes against the reins of his horse, leather creaking beneath the strain.
GREEGAN trails slightly behind, daggers at each hip, eyes scanning—ostensibly for danger. But his focus drifts.
Toward IREENA, whose red hair gleams against the sun-filtered fog like defiance stitched in flame.
She rides with poise, sword across her lap, face unreadable.
MEDIUM SHOT —
Greegan studies her.
Then immediately feigns interest in a nearby crow.
Then the dirt.
Then his boot.
Anything but her.
But when her laughter sparks—low and rare, in response to something FELONIOUS mutters—he catches the sound like a blade drawn gently from its sheath.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t smile.
But he doesn’t look away, either.
CLARION grips her own reins tighter, face a bit more severe than perhaps she intends.
FLEETWOOD rides half a pace behind now, his shoulders too square. He hides within his iron shell, but his eyes speak of heartbreak.
SILVERLEAF casts a quiet glance between them all, taking inventory of fractures too subtle for steel.
A breeze rises.
Dry leaves lift from the road and swirl around their hooves.
From within the mist behind them, a faint bell tolls once—thin and brittle.
No one speaks.
But everyone hears it.
IREENA lifts her eyes to the castle’s silhouette far ahead, jagged on the horizon.
She whispers, as if to herself:
IREENA: “The road doesn’t end until it’s named.”
GREEGAN hears her.
Doesn’t ask what it means.
Just clenches his jaw, rides on, and watches.
From a safe distance.
From too close.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits Play over: THE RINGS OF POWER: This Wandering Day | Poppy's Song | Epic Version (With Megan Richards Vocal)