Opening Credits play over: Alan Silvestri - Transylvania 1887
A frost‑laden valley exhales mist.
The camera drifts over the Old Svalich Road, its stones slick with moonlight.
A whisper — “Dreamer, awaken.”
Snow begins to fall upward.
Lady Winter’s silhouette forms within the storm — a woman of ice and memory, her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent prayer.
Each breath she takes births a vision: the party descending the mountain, their faces half‑lit by spectral light.
Her voice overlays the wind: “They walk the road I dreamed.”
Fleetwood trudges through the fog, armor cracked, carrying Clarion, her black hair streaming like ink across his shoulder.
Felonious sketches runes in the snow that melt before completion.
Silverleaf watches the horizon, her spear reflecting the Dreamer’s pale glow.
Greegan mutters a prayer to dice that never stop rolling.
Ireena holds the mirror uncovered — its surface ripples with faces not her own.
Ezmerelda walks apart, her lantern guttering.
Arabelle pauses, whispering to something unseen: “She dreams us still.”
The storm halts.
Lady Winter’s eyes open — twin mirrors of the moon.
The world freezes mid‑motion; snow hangs suspended.
Her whisper becomes command: “Wake, my children. The road remembers.”
The mist coils into letters:
A DREAM OF DAWN
A raven crosses the frame, its wings scattering frost.
Starring (Fancast):
Richard Armitage as Hawk Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion Fleetwood
Ben Whisaw as Felonious Blackepoole
Matt Ryan as Greegan Mikov
Tatiana Maslany as Shael Silverleaf
Thomasin McKenzie as Ireena Kolyana
Morena Baccarin as Ezmerelda d’Avenir
Cailee Spaeny as Arabelle Zarovan
With (Fancast)
Helen Mirren as Lady Fiona Wachter
Morfydd Clark as Stella Wachter/Ezra
David Dastalmachian as Urwin Martikov
Ruth Negga as Danika Darakova
Jim Broadbent as Father Lucian Petrovich
Kodi Smit-McPhee as Victor Vallakovich
Gary Oldman as Dr. Rudolf von Richten
Rory McCann as Izek Strazni
Mark Addy as Orvalda Raskov
George McKay as Yeska (Adult)
Michiel Huisman as Ilya Krezkov (Adult)
Steve Buscemi as Gadof Blinksy
Oliver Jackson-Cohen as Ismark Kolyanovich
George Blagden as Nikolai Wachter, Jr.
and
Michael Fassbender as Ithuriel
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
Scene: Gates of Vallaki — Twilight
EXT. VALLAKI — EARLY EVENING
Background Music: Fabomusic - The Town of Vallaki
The sun hangs low — a dying ember smothered behind clouds — and its light spills across Vallaki in long, skeletal shadows. The gates groan open on rusted hinges, as though reluctant to admit what approaches.
The guards nod in passing. Unaware. Untouched. Unknowing.
They do not see the blood washed from boots.
They do not smell the ashes of ancient rites.
They do not feel the tremor in the earth where something old has begun to stir.
Vallaki is peaceful.
Children chase each other between the market stalls.
Smoke curls lazily from chimneys.
Vendors pack away their wares with the weary rhythm of ordinary life.
But the party walks in silence.
Fleetwood carries Clarion, her arms looped around his neck — not from weakness, but from something deeper, quieter.
She is awake. She is healed. But she does not let go.
And he does not ask her to.
Greegan whistles under his breath, though the tune is thin and wary, his eyes flicking across rooftops and alley mouths.
Silverleaf walks beside him, spear at her side, the stinger tucked neatly into her belt — a hunter’s calm masking a storm beneath.
Felonious lingers a few steps behind, cloak stirring in the faint breeze. The reliquary at his hip pulses with a heartbeat not entirely his own.
Ezmerelda limps, jaw set, blade sheathed but ready, her gaze sharp enough to cut stone.
Ireena moves like a woman half‑present, the Sun Sword at her hip humming faintly, as though sensing a shift in the air.
And then —
Lady Fiona Wachter stops.
At the edge of the square, she lifts her gaze to her manor.
Its windows are dark.
Its doors are sealed.
Its halls are empty.
She knows.
She is no longer a loyal servant.
No longer a whisper in Strahd’s ear.
No longer a piece on his board.
She is a traitor.
A woman who has stepped beyond the circle of the Devil’s favor — and into the cold light of consequence.
She does not know what the reconsecration of the Fanes will bring.
But she knows this:
FIONA: “I am a traitor to Ravenloft now. I don’t know how the Devil will answer. Or when. However… I don’t intend to wait to find out.”
She turns.
Her eyes meet Felonious’s — a silent pact forged in the space between heartbeats.
He nods, grim.
The wind shifts. The sky darkens.
And far away, in a fortress of black stone carved from the bones of the mountain,
two crimson eyes blink open.
The party has returned. The land has changed. And the storm is coming.
CUT TO:
Scene: Vallaki — Blue Water Inn (Under Construction) - Night
Background Music: Fabomusic - Blue Water Inn
The common room breathes with the scent of sawdust and damp stone, the perfume of a place rebuilt faster than the land can decide whether it wants to live again.
Lanterns flicker, their flames bowing to drafts that slip through the half‑mended walls.
The party gathers around a rough‑hewn table, maps and gear strewn across its scarred surface.
The air hums with quiet preparation.
Then—
The door creaks open.
A nondescript Vallakian steps inside, cloak muddied, eyes unfocused as though he has walked through fog thicker than the night outside.
In his hand: a folded note, sealed with silver‑gray wax.
VALLAKIAN: “A hooded figure gave me this. Said it was for you.”
He frowns, confusion clouding his features.
VALLAKIAN (CONT’D): “I don’t know who they were. Didn’t even see their face. And I… I don’t know why they didn’t just give it to you themselves.”
He hands the note to Fleetwood, then drifts back toward the door, still dazed, as though waking from someone else’s dream.
Fleetwood breaks the seal — a sprig of belladonna pressed upon a silver shield —
and unfolds the parchment.
The ink is fine. Precise. Measured like a blade.
The message reads:
“The masks we wear open many doors.
To find mine, follow yours.”
Silence settles over the table.
Felonious leans in, eyes narrowing.
FELONIOUS: “Belladonna. Poison and beauty.”
Silverleaf traces the seal with a fingertip, her expression unreadable.
SILVERLEAF: “And a shield. Someone hiding behind elegance.”
Clarion studies the note, brow furrowed.
CLARION: “It’s not just a riddle. It’s a challenge.”
Ezmerelda snorts, crossing her arms.
EZMERELDA: “Or a trap.”
Ireena, still shaken from the dream’s lingering echo, whispers:
IREENA: “What mask do they mean?”
Fleetwood folds the note slowly, the parchment crackling like dry leaves.
FLEETWOOD: “Ours. Whatever we’ve been pretending not to be.”
Outside, the wind howls.
The lanterns flicker.
And somewhere in Vallaki,
a hooded figure waits.
The seal is broken. The message is clear. And the door
is about to open.
Scene: Blue Water Inn — Under Construction
INT. BLUE WATER INN — MIDDAY
Title Card: “Two Days Later”
Background Music: Fabomusic - Blue Water Inn
The air is thick with sawdust and fresh mortar, the scent of a place not yet born.
Half‑finished wooden beams stretch overhead like the ribs of some slumbering beast.
Sunlight leaks through the gaps in the walls in thin, hesitant blades.
The hearth is cold.
But the room is warm with breath, with presence, with the quiet weight of survival.
The party sits scattered through the skeletal inn:
Fleetwood sharpening his blade, each stroke a promise.
Clarion resting nearby, her armor laid out like a wounded animal awaiting mending.
Felonious turning pages of the Tome, its margins whispering.
Silverleaf watching the street through a missing window frame, eyes sharp as winter.
Greegan idly testing the balance of one of Rahadin’s scimitars.
Ezmerelda sipping tea from a chipped mug, the steam curling like a ghost.
Ireena tending to the Sun Sword’s hilt, its faint glow reflecting in her distant gaze.
Arabelle sits cross-legged, tracing runes in the sawdust with her fingertip. The runes form patterns she shouldn’t know.
Then —
the door creaks open.
Stella Wachter steps inside, her cloak dusted with road grit, her face carved by two days of truths no one should have to learn. he looks older — not in years, but in burden.
Her voice is careful. Measured. As though each word must be weighed before it is allowed to live.
STELLA: “My mother sent me. She’s asked for you — personally. Says it’s urgent.”
The party looks up. No one speaks. The silence is a held breath.
STELLA (CONT’D): “I don’t know what it’s about. But… Father Lucian, Unwin Martikov, and Victor are already there.”
Felonious closes the Tome. Fleetwood rises, exchanging a glance with Clarion — a question, an answer, a vow. Silverleaf straightens, hand drifting to her belt. Greegan sighs and slides the scimitar home.
Ezmerelda mutters under her breath:
EZMERELDA: “Urgent never means good.”
Ireena nods, quiet as snowfall.
IREENA: “Let’s find out what she wants.”
Outside, the wind shifts. The sky darkens. And somewhere in the heart of Barovia,
the storm stirs again, tasting the air for change.
The party gathers.
The summons stands.
And the next move
belongs to Lady Wachter.
CUT TO:
Scene: Blue Water Inn — War Room
INT. BLUE WATER INN — UPPER FLOOR — NIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Into the Mists
The inn is silent, save for the creak of settling beams and the soft scratch of quills dragging across parchment. Maps lie unfurled across the table like flayed skin. Ink stains the wood in dark, spreading wounds. The scent of rain clings to the air — cold, metallic, expectant.
Urwin Martikov stands at the window, framed by unfinished timber.
Outside, the last of the Keepers of the Feather take flight — ravens rising into the night like scattered pieces of a broken crown. Their wings catch the moonlight, flashing silver before the dark swallows them whole.
He turns back to the party, voice low, heavy with the weight of what he’s sending into the sky.
URWIN: “They’re headed to Barovia and Krezk. Not just to warn them — but to propose an alliance.”
He exhales, rubbing his temples as though trying to press back a headache born of prophecy.
URWIN (CONT’D): “To rid the valley of Strahd’s evil once and for all.”
His gaze settles on Fleetwood — not for comfort, but for truth.
URWIN (CONT’D): “I hope they return before he strikes. But I don’t know for sure.”
Fleetwood leans over the map, fingers tracing the jagged lines of mountains and roads like scars.
FLEETWOOD: “Strahd’s missing Escher. Anastrasya. Rahadin.”
He taps the parchment — once, twice — the sound sharp as a coffin nail.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “His list of allies grows thin. But his reach… it’s still too long.”
Felonious closes the Tome with a soft thud, as though afraid to wake something sleeping inside it.
FELONIOUS: “It won’t be as simple as killing him.”
He looks up, eyes shadowed by knowledge no one should carry.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “That’s been done before. And he always comes back. Always. Like he reforms from the mist itself.”
He gestures to the map — to the valley, to the veins of roads and rivers, to the land itself.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “We have cut his roots, not his heart. The land will no longer rise to shield him — but it will still remember him. And until we unmake the pact, Barovia will not let its tyrant die.”
His gaze flicks to Ireena — a brief, haunted acknowledgment — then back to the others.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “But let’s not pretend we can talk him into letting the land go. Or her.”
Silence falls. The kind that feels like the world holding its breath.
Outside, the wind howls — a long, low warning.
And the ravens vanish into the dark, swallowed by the night that birthed them.
The message is sent. The valley stirs. And the war draws closer.
CUT TO:
Vallaki Barracks — Courtyard - Dusk
Background Music: Fabomusic - Encounter in Vallaki
(Dusk settling like a bruise across the sky.)
The courtyard glistens with the last memory of morning rain. Puddles reflect the torchlight in trembling shards. The wind prowls between the barracks, making the torches gutter and hiss.
The defenders of Vallaki gather in loose, uneven ranks — guards with mismatched armor, scouts with hollow eyes, old militia clutching spears like old regrets.
At the front stand Fleetwood, Clarion, Ezmerelda, and Van Richten —
four figures carved from resolve and exhaustion.
Fleetwood steps forward, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.
His voice is steady, but the dusk seems to lean in to hear him.
FLEETWOOD: “We’ve slain his consorts. Cut down Rahadin. Torn the Fanes out from under him. Strahd won’t come to bargain. He’ll come to break whatever’s left standing.”
Ezmerelda folds her arms, her prosthetic leg braced against the stone.
EZMERELDA: “We’ve seen what he does to villages that defy him. We’ve seen what he leaves behind.”
She gestures toward the walls — walls that have heard screams, walls that remember fire.
EZMERELDA (CONT’D): “If you want Vallaki to stand, you’ll have to fight like it’s already burning.”
Van Richten steps forward, cloak stirring like a shadow with its own mind.
VAN RICHTEN: “Strahd is not a man. He is a wound in the land. And wounds fester when ignored.”
He sweeps his gaze across the defenders —
measuring them, mourning them, believing in them.
VAN RICHTEN (CONT’D): “You cannot wait for him to knock. You must be ready when he breaks down the door.”
Silence falls —
thick, heavy, expectant.
Then Izek Strazni steps forward. His voice is rough, uncertain — but unbroken.
IZEK: “I’ve done terrible things. But you gave me something I never had.”
He looks at Clarion, then Fleetwood —
a man seeing, perhaps for the first time, the shape of mercy.
IZEK (CONT’D): “Freedom. I’ll fight to keep it.”
A murmur ripples through the ranks. Some nod. Most look down.
Orvalda Razkov, helmet under his arm, stares at the ground as though it might swallow him.
ORVALDA: “We’re doomed. We all know it.”
Clarion steps forward, armor dented, light flickering across her holy symbol like a heartbeat.
CLARION: “You’re right to be afraid.”
She meets Orvalda’s eyes — not with pity, but with truth.
CLARION (CONT’D): “But fear is not the end. It’s the beginning.”
She turns to the crowd, her voice rising like dawn over the valley.
CLARION (CONT’D) : “Strahd is powerful. But he is not invincible. He is not eternal. And he is not the only one who can shape this land.”
The torches flare as if answering her.
CLARION (CONT’D): “You are the shield. You are the sword. You are the breath of a valley that refuses to die.”
She lowers her symbol, the last glimmer of light clinging to its edge.
CLARION (CONT’D): “When he comes — we fight. And if we fight — we have a chance.”
The silence holds. Then — slowly — the defenders straighten. Not fearless.
Not triumphant. But ready.
The courtyard quiets. The torches burn.
And the defenders of Vallaki choose to stand — even as the night gathers at the edges of the world.
Montage: Vallaki Prepares
EXT. VALLAKI — VARIOUS LOCATIONS — DAY TO NIGHT
Background: Fabomusic - Tome of Strahd
Barracks Courtyard
Guards hammer together makeshift barricades from broken carts and timber.
Orvalda Razkov oversees the work, his jaw clenched, her eyes scanning the horizon.
Town Square
Children carry buckets of water to underground cellars.
Old men stack sacks of grain and dried meat in the chapel basement.
Father Lucian blesses each cache with a quiet prayer.
North Gate
Fleetwood inspects the defenses—
sharpened stakes, reinforced doors, oil barrels ready to be lit.
He runs a hand along the wood, nodding slowly.
FLEETWOOD (V.O.): “It’s not perfect. But it’ll hold.”
Wachterhaus
Lady Wachter distributes maps and orders, her voice calm but clipped.
Stella helps, her hands trembling but steady.
Blue Water Inn (Under Construction)
Greegan sharpens blades, muttering to himself.
Ezmerelda tests crossbows, her prosthetic leg braced against a beam.
Felonious draws sigils on the walls—wards, alarms, last lines of defense.
Chapel of St. Andral
Clarion kneels before the altar, her armor polished, her mace laid out.
She rises, steps outside, and begins a sermon to the gathered townsfolk.
Her voice is clear.
Not fiery.
But steady.
CLARION (V.O.): “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to stand.”
Walls of Vallaki
Silverleaf trains archers, her voice sharp.
She points to the treeline, to the sky, to the places where darkness will come.
Final Shots
A raven lands on a rooftop, watching.
A child ties a silver ribbon around a wooden sword.
A woman kisses her husband’s forehead before handing him a spear.
The sun sets.
The torches are lit.
The gates are closed.
The town is quiet. The defenses are ready. And the people of Vallaki have chosen to stand. Even if the night is coming.
Vallaki — North Barricade
The barricade groans beneath the wind, its timbers swollen with the day’s rain.
Torches sputter and hiss, their flames bending like frightened things.
And Fleetwood sits alone upon the rampart, sword laid across his knees, watching the horizon with the patience of a man who has learned to fear sunsets.
The sun hangs low — a red, drowning disk, thick and viscous as spilled blood, bleeding across the treeline in slow, suffocating strokes.
Fleetwood’s eyes narrow.
He shifts his weight.
Every muscle taut.
Every breath measured.
He is alert.
Ready.
Waiting for the night to bare its teeth.
Then—
His head dips.
Just once.
Then again.
And sleep takes him like a hand closing over a candle flame.
🎬 Montage — The Sleep Descends
Blue Water Inn
Felonious, mid‑incantation, falters.
His eyes flutter.
He slumps against the wall as the amber reliquary at his side pulses — once, twice — like something inside it is waking.
Wachterhaus
Lady Fiona Wachter drops her quill.
Ink splashes across her orders like spilled night.
Her head tilts, her breath catches—
and she collapses onto the desk, cheek sinking into the spreading black.
Barracks Courtyard
Clarion, polishing her armor, blinks slowly.
She reaches for her holy symbol—
but her fingers never close around it.
She falls forward, breath shallow, light dimming.
Training Yard
Silverleaf pauses mid‑instruction. The archers around her drop in a comatose heap.
Her brow furrows.
Elves do not sleep. But her knees buckle. She drops to the earth, eyes wide with confusion— then closed.
Rooftop
Ezmerelda grips her crossbow, muttering a curse.
The wind tugs at her cloak.
Her head lolls.
She slumps against the chimney, breath stolen.
Stables
Greegan chuckles at something unseen.
Then his hand slips.
He collapses into the hay, snoring softly as the horses stamp nervously.
Chapel of St. Andral
Father Lucian’s prayer falters.
The candle gutters.
He collapses beside the altar, the last word of his blessing unfinished.
Final Shot
The sun vanishes. The sky bruises into darkness. And across Vallaki,
the defenders sleep.
Unnaturally.
Unbidden.
Unaware.
The town is silent. The torches burn. And in the stillness, something stirs.
The night has begun.
Fade softly to:
Scene: Dreamscape — Town Square
Background Music: Fabomusic - Lands of Barovia
EXT. TOWN SQUARE — TWILIGHT
The air is hushed — not silent, but held, as though the dream itself is afraid to breathe too loudly.
Muted garlands sway in a breeze that feels borrowed from another season.
Painted wooden boxes brim with delicate flowers — lavender, cream, pale yellow — their colors softened as if remembered rather than seen.
Shops and homes encircle the square, familiar yet distant, their shutters open, their windows glowing with warm, impossible light.
At the northern edge stands a stone fountain.
And at its heart:
A gray statue — a woman, noble, sorrowful, unmistakable — facing west.
Ireena Kolyana.
No inscription. No dedication. Just the weight of memory carved into stone.
The square is full — not bustling, but gathered.
A congregation of breath and waiting.
Faces rise from the crowd like lanterns emerging through fog:
Father Lucian Petrovich, older now, robes faded but dignified.
Yeska, grown tall, wonder still bright in his eyes.
Urwin Martikov, silver‑bearded, standing beside Danika Dorakova, her hair streaked with black feathers and silver.
Gadof Blinsky, portly, smiling faintly, his jester’s cap drooping.
Ithuriel, golden‑haired, wings folded, gaze serene.
And in the shadows — Victor Vallakovich, older, darker, watching from the alley with unreadable eyes.
At the eastern edge of the square stands the party —
but not as they know themselves.
Their clothes have changed:
uniforms of a familiar design, worn over simple chain shirts. Each holds a spear in one hand, a shield in the other. The spear‑tips rest against the cobblestones with ceremonial finality.
They are not guests here.
They are guardians.
Ireena stands among them, her breath trembling in her chest.
IREENA: “What is happening?”
She looks at the statue. At the crowd. At herself.
Silverleaf does not answer at once. Her eyes sweep the square, the fountain, the statue’s westward gaze.
SILVERLEAF: “A memory. A warning. A prophecy.”
Felonious speaks softly, as though afraid to disturb the dream’s surface.
FELONIOUS: “Or all three.”
Clarion steps forward, her shield catching a faint, impossible glimmer of light.
CLARION: “We’re not just dreaming. We’re being shown something.”
Fleetwood tightens his grip on the spear, jaw set.
FLEETWOOD: “A future. Or a choice.”
The statue does not move.
The crowd does not fade.
The dream does not loosen its grip.
And somewhere beyond the square, the wind begins to rise — a long, low howl from a night that has not yet arrived.
The dream holds. The guardians stand. And the woman of stone
faces the west. Where the night is waiting.
Twilight clings to the square like a veil.
The garlands sway — slow, muted, as though underwater.
The air hums with a reverence that does not belong to the living.
At the fountain’s center stands the statue of Ireena Kolyana, carved in gray stone, facing west.
Noble.
Sorrowful.
Unmoving.
The crowd murmurs — soft, wind‑through‑leaves voices — unaware of the watchers drifting among them.
Greegan moves through the square, weaving between familiar faces.
He speaks lightly, easily, as he always does—
But they do not call him Greegan.
They call him Vellmir.
A Vallakian guard, long dead.
A man Greegan once impersonated in jest.
Now, in the dream, the mask is real.
He glances back at the others —
Fleetwood, Clarion, Silverleaf, Felonious, Ezmerelda, Ireena —
but the crowd does not see them.
They see other names.
Other faces.
The party is forgotten —
or perhaps rewritten.
Even Ireena, standing beside her own stone likeness, is not recognized.
The crowd honors her —
but not as herself.
Greegan presses deeper, slipping into conversations, listening.
And slowly, the truth unfolds through Eavesdropped echoes .Examples:
Urwin and Danika whispering about Ireena’s sacrifice.
Yeska telling a child the story of “the day the valley was saved.”
Victor muttering bitterly about the party’s departure.
🕯️ What Greegan Learns
Background Music: Fabomusic - Strahd Battle Theme
Ten years ago, Ireena Kolyana gave herself to the Dark Powers — sacrificing her soul to prevent Strahd from claiming her.
Her death shook the valley.
Strahd left Castle Ravenloft in a rage, hunting answers.Fleetwood wounded him grievously with the Sun Sword.
Days later, Strahd sent a message:
He would cease tormenting their friends.
He would permit their departure from Barovia.
But only if they left together, taking the Sun Sword with them.
With Ireena gone, Strahd abandoned the Grand Conjunction.
He lingered in the Mists, searching for her soul.The party departed Barovia —
but not before telling the tale of Ireena’s sacrifice.Lady Wachter declared the day of Ireena’s death a Vallakian holiday —
a day of mourning and celebration.
🕯️ What Followed
Strahd reconquered the Fanes, desecrating them once more.
Within a year, his research failed.
Frustrated, he returned to hibernation.His beasts and undead retreated, held at bay by the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind.
Lady Wachter abdicated; her son Nikolai took her place.
Yeska became a deacon.
Victor Vallakovich, bitter over the party’s departure, quarreled with Stella Wachter. She ended their friendship and married Ilya Krezkov.
🕯️ What Now
Peace reigns —
but whispers stir.The Priests of Osybus, a secretive cult, seek to raise Strahd and usher in an Age of Blood.
To stop them, the three burgomasters founded the Ulmist Inquisition, reviving an ancient order sworn to destroy fiend‑worshipping cults.
Most believe the Priests are myth.
If they exist, they are few.
Weak.
But Greegan knows better.
The dream is not a myth.
It is a warning.
Ireena stands beside her own statue, trembling.
IREENA : “Why don’t they see me?”
Her voice cracks.
IREENA (CONT’D): “Why don’t they remember?”
Fleetwood steps beside her, eyes on the wreath at the statue’s feet.
FLEETWOOD: “They remember the sacrifice. Not the soul.”
The wind rises. The statue glows faintly. And the dream begins to shift —
as though turning a page.
Background Music Shifts: Fabomusic - Lands of Barovia
The masks are worn. The truth is buried.And the valley
is not yet free.
Sunset spills across the square like warm gold poured over old stone.
The light is soft — soft as memory, soft as something half‑forgotten.
Garlands sway in the hush of a wind that does not stir the dust.
At the fountain’s center, the statue of Ireena Kolyana stands watch, her stone gaze fixed westward. Serene. Unmoving. Unaware.
The crowd turns as four figures ascend the wooden platform, their silhouettes gilded by the dying sun:
Nikolai Wachter, Jr. — bearded, bearing a silver medallion, voice steady and warm.
Fiona Wachter — aged but dignified, her gray dress flowing like mist.
Ismark Kolyanovich — golden‑haired, noble, bow stiff with formality.
Ilya Krezkov — dark‑skinned, axe strapped to his back, greeting casual and heartfelt.
Nikolai spreads his arms, voice ringing across the square like a bell struck in reverence.
NIKOLAI: “Welcome to the Festival of Peace.”
He gestures to the men beside him.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “I am honored to welcome our dignified guests from our neighbors: Burgomaster Ismark Kolyanovich, and Burgomaster Ilya Krezkov.”
Ismark bows. Ilya raises a hand, smiling faintly.
Nikolai continues, voice rich with memory, heavy with the weight of a decade.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “This year, we celebrate ten years of peace. Ten years since the shadow of Castle Ravenloft retreated from our homes, allowing us to live with those we cherish — our neighbors, our friends, our families.”
He pauses.
The crowd listens.
The square holds its breath.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “But this peace came at a cost.”
He turns to the wreath of periwinkle‑blue flowers, lifting it gently, reverently.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “Accordingly, in this ceremony of remembrance, we honor the memory of the one who gave up her life, so that ours might be saved.”
He raises the wreath high, the flowers glowing faintly in the sunset.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “With this wreath, we honor the Lady Ireena Kolyana, daughter of Burgomaster Kolyan Indirovich and Korina Targolova. With it, we honor her sacrifice, and the peace her selflessness brought us.”
He offers the wreath to Ismark.
Ismark accepts it with trembling hands.
The crowd parts as he descends the platform, moving toward the fountain.
He kneels before the slab at its northern edge, placing the wreath gently upon the stone.
ISMARK: “May you find rest in the rest you have brought us.”
The crowd replies, soft and unified, a single breath from many mouths:
CROWD: “And may you find peace in the peace you have won.”
Ismark rises, returns to the platform.
Nikolai clasps his shoulder, then turns once more to the gathered souls.
NIKOLAI: “Let us never forget where we came from. But as we honor her sacrifice through memory, so too do we honor her by living the lives she won for us — with joy, camaraderie, and good humor.”
He smiles — a rare, fragile thing.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D: “So that we may celebrate those lives, I am glad to declare this tenth annual Festival of Peace begun!”
A chorus of cheers rises.
The crowd begins to mill, voices lifting, laughter blooming like spring after a long winter.
Children chase ribbons.
Musicians tune their strings.
The square breathes.
And the party stands at the edge — watching a world that remembers but does not recognize.
Not them.
Not Ireena.
Not the truth.
The wreath rests. The statue watches. And the dream holds its breath.
FADE GENTLY TO:
Scene: Dreamscape — Town Square
EXT. TOWN SQUARE — EARLY EVENING
The cheers of the Festival of Peace still echo faintly.
Children chase ribbons.
Musicians begin to play.
The statue of Ireena Kolyana watches silently from the fountain’s edge.
The party gathers near the eastern edge of the square, still dressed in ceremonial garb—spears grounded, shields slung.
They speak in hushed tones, trying to make sense of the dream’s strange logic, its reverent tone, its rewriting of memory.
Then—
the crowd parts.
Burgomaster Nikolai Wachter, Ismark Kolyanovich, and Ilya Krezkov approach, flanked by six guards:
Two Vallakian guards, chain shirts gleaming, spears upright.
Two Barovian guards, leather armor and longswords at their hips.
Two Krezkian guards, shortbows slung, shortswords sheathed.
They move with purpose, but not alarm.
Nikolai salutes the party, his silver medallion catching the light.
NIKOLAI: “My friends.”
He lowers his voice, stepping closer.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “We’ve missed someone.”
He glances at Ilya, who nods solemnly.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “Lady Stella Wachter. My sister. She was meant to attend the ceremony, but… she’s vanished.”
Ismark folds his arms, brow furrowed. He does not recognize Ireena or Silverleaf, though both stand before him.
ISMARK: “We assumed she was delayed. But no one’s seen her since this morning.”
Ilya shifts his weight, voice low.
ILYA: “She’s not at the manor. Not at the chapel. Not with the musicians.”
Nikolai leans in, voice barely above a whisper.
NIKOLAI: “We must return to Wachterhaus. There’s a matter we must discuss—privately.”
He glances at the guards, then back to the party.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “The Ulmist project.’
His eyes flicker with caution.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “It’s not ready to be announced. Not until we agree on its framework. Not until we know who’s listening.”
He straightens, voice returning to normal.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “Would you find Stella? Bring her to the manor?”
He gestures to the square.
NIKOLAI (CONT’D): “It’s rare that my sister has a chance to catch up with old friends. Doubtlessly, she’s lost track of time—socializing, visiting old haunts.”
The guards remain silent.
The music swells.
And the statue watches.
The Festival continues.
The dream holds.
And somewhere in the square,
Lady Stella Wachter
is waiting to be found.
CUT TO:
🌑 Montage — The Trail of the Moonwheel
🎵 Background Music: Fabomusic - Encounter in Vallaki
St. Andral’s Church — Morning Light
Pale gold spills through stained glass, dust drifting like slow snow.
The party — mistaken for Vallakian guards — stands before Father Lucian and Brother Yeska, who linger beside the altar.
FATHER LUCIAN: “She came early. Lit a candle. Said she might stop by Blinsky’s afterward.”
YESKA: “She seemed… peaceful.”
The candle she lit still burns — impossibly tall, untouched by time.
Blinsky Toys — Late Morning
Clockwork ravens twitch on their perches.
Dolls spin in slow, dreamlike circles.
Gadof Blinsky chuckles nervously, hands trembling.
BLINSKY: “She bought an old toy. One I made after the Grand Conjunction. Like this one.”
He lifts it: a spinning wheel, painted with phases of the moon — waxing, waning, never still.
BLINSKY (CONT’D): “Said she was meeting ‘an old friend.’ Didn’t say who.”
The wheel turns once in his hand —though he did not touch it.
West End of the Square — Pre‑Ceremony
The air smells of bread and rain. Danika Dorakova, feathers braided into her silver‑streaked hair, gestures toward a narrow alley.
DANIKA: “I saw her with Victor. They were speaking quietly. She looked… resolved.”
Urwin Martikov folds his arms, gaze distant.
URWIN: “Didn’t seem like a fight. More like goodbye.”
The alley yawns like a throat.
Alleyway — Ceremony in Progress
The music of the festival drifts faintly.
Shadows cling to the walls like damp cloth.
Ithuriel stands with wings folded, eyes sharp as cut glass.
ITHURIEL: “Didn’t see Stella. But there was a man. Cloaked. Watching.”
He frowns.
ITHURIEL (CONT’D): “Didn’t react to the ceremony. Didn’t blink.”
A single footprint remains in the dust — too deep, too still.
Victor’s Corner — Post‑Ceremony
A shuttered stall.
A lantern guttering.
Victor Vallakovich leans against the wood, older, bitter, shadows clinging to him like old debts.
VICTOR: “She said she was going to the lake.”
He scoffs, but the sound is hollow.
VICTOR (CONT’D): “Lake Zarovich. To think. To remember.”
He glances at the party, something fragile flickering behind his eyes.
VICTOR (CONT’D): “If you find her… tell her I kept the moonwheel.”
The toy’s painted moons seem to glow in the dim light.
The party stands at the edge of the square, the festival murmuring behind them.
The statue of Ireena watches west, stone eyes fixed on something beyond sight.
And beyond the rooftops, the path to Lake Zarovich glimmers in the fading light — a silver thread leading into the unknown.
CUT TO:
Scene: Dreamscape — Lake Zarovich
EXT. SOUTH SHORE — TWILIGHT
Background Music: Fabomusic - Into the Mists
Twilight gathers like a bruise along the horizon.
The walk is familiar — too familiar — the kind of path one remembers from childhood dreams or past lives. The trees whisper overhead, their branches brushing together like conspirators. The path curves gently toward the water.
And Lake Zarovich lies before them, unchanged from waking memory —
still, glassy, reflecting the wounded sky above.
The mountains loom in the distance, their peaks softened by drifting mist, as though the world itself is exhaling.
Four rowboats rest along the south shore, their hulls damp with dew, their ropes coiled like sleeping serpents.
Beside them sits a gray‑cloaked woman.
Her back is straight. Her hands are folded in her lap. Her brown tresses spill across her shoulders, catching the last threads of fading light.
She turns.
Her form resembles Stella Wachter — but her face is older, almost ageless,
and undeniably strange.
Her eyebrows are thin, her cheekbones high, her expression a paradox:
stern, solemn, comforting —as though she has mourned the world and forgiven it.
Her eyes are pale gray, like mist drifting over moonlight.
At her throat gleams a brooch:
a sprig of belladonna upon a silver shield —
the same sigil that has followed the party through dream and omen.
She smiles.
Warmly.
Genuinely.
As though she has known them all her life.
WOMAN: “At long last. I’ve truly looked forward to meeting you.”
The lake is silent. The boats do not rock. The mist does not move.
And the dream does not end.
The veil has thinned. The mask has turned. And the woman by the lake
is ready to speak.
Nightfall settles over Lake Zarovich like a velvet shroud.
The water is utterly still — a perfect mirror reflecting a sky bruised purple and wine‑dark. Not a ripple. Not a breath.
The woman in gray sits beside the rowboats, her posture straight, her presence quiet as a prayer half‑remembered. Her brooch — a sprig of belladonna upon a silver shield — gleams faintly in the dying light, as though lit from within.
She lifts a hand and taps the silver shield at her throat.
The gesture is delicate. Deadly. Intentional.
Her smile is warm. Knowing. Too knowing.
EZRA: “Tell me… have you seen dear Fiona wearing anything like this?”
The party stiffens.
The brooch. The symbol. The name.
A truth they have spoken only in whispers.
Clarion steps forward, reverent and wary, her voice barely more than breath.
CLARION: “You are Ezra. Goddess of the Mists.”
She does not say the rest. Not aloud.
But the thought hangs in the air like a blade suspended by a single hair:
A mask, perhaps — for something older.
Darker. Hungrier.
Ezra’s smile deepens, though her pale gray eyes remain unreadable, like mist over moonlight.
EZRA: “Good. You remember.”
She rises slowly, her gray cloak trailing across the stones like a tide withdrawing from shore.
EZRA (CONT’D): “The Mists are not kind. But they are patient.”
She turns her gaze to the lake — to the stillness, to the reflection of the bruised sky, to the mountains softened by drifting fog.
Then she looks back at the party.
EZRA (CONT’D): “And they have waited a long time… for you.”
The wind stirs. The boats creak. The lake holds its breath.
And the dream does not end.
The goddess speaks. The veil thins. And the Mists begin to whisper.
Nightfall settles over Lake Zarovich like a velvet shroud. The water is still — too still — a perfect mirror reflecting a sky bruised violet and wine‑dark. Not a ripple disturbs its surface. Not a whisper breaks its calm.
The boats rest untouched along the shore, their hulls damp with dew, their ropes coiled like sleeping serpents. Mist curls around the party’s feet, cold as breath on a crypt door.
Felonious steps forward, voice smooth, eyes sharp — a blade wrapped in velvet.
FELONIOUS: “And what does the Guardian of the Mists want of us?”
His tone is blunt.
But Ezra does not flinch.
She sits beside the rowboats, gray cloak pooling around her like gathered fog.
Her brooch — a sprig of belladonna upon a silver shield — gleams faintly in the twilight, as though lit from within.
She lifts a hand and taps the silver shield at her throat. The gesture is delicate. Deadly.
Intentional.
Her smile is warm. Knowing. Untouched by offense.
EZRA: “I know you have many questions. And I will answer them all.”
She turns toward the lake, her gaze distant, as though watching something move beneath the surface.
EZRA (CONT’D): “But first… a story.”
The mist thickens.
The moon glints on the water.
Her voice carries like wind through reeds — soft, mournful, inevitable.
🕯️ Ezra’s Tale (V.O.)
EZRA (V.O.): “Ten years ago, a great darkness fell upon the land. At Strahd’s command, the dead rose from their graves. Night extinguished day. Hope flickered. All seemed lost.”
The lake remains still — but the reflection of the sky trembles.
EZRA (V.O.): “Until a lone Barovian — a woman of courage and sorrow — gave her life to stop Strahd’s madness. Her sacrifice was pure. And in that moment, Strahd’s greatest desire slipped through his fingers once more.”
A faint ripple touches the water — then vanishes.
EZRA (V.O.): “He left Castle Ravenloft. He came to you — to learn what had occurred. And when he did, he made an offer.”
The mist coils tighter around the party’s ankles.
EZRA (V.O.): “He would bring no harm to your friends. He would allow you to leave Barovia — freely. Together. But only if you took the Sun Sword with you.”
A cold wind brushes the shore.
EZRA (V.O.): “He did this because, with her gone, he no longer sought escape through the Grand Conjunction. He chose instead to linger — to wait — to search for her soul in the Mists.”
The lake darkens, as though swallowing the last of the light.
EZRA (V.O.): “You accepted. You left. But not before sharing her tale. Her sacrifice. Her peace.”
A single ripple crosses the water — slow, deliberate.
EZRA (V.O.): “Lady Wachter declared the day a holiday — a time of mourning, and celebration. Strahd kept his word.”
The mountains seem to lean closer.
EZRA (V.O.): “He returned to his crypt. His creatures withdrew. And the valley — for the first time in generations — knew peace.”
Ezra turns back to the party, her eyes shining like foglit stars — soft, ancient, and fathomless.
EZRA: “For ten years, Barovia has flourished. But peace is not permanence. And the Mists…do not forget.”
The wind stirs.
The boats creak.
The lake holds its breath.
And the dream
does not end.
The story is told. The lake is still. And the Guardian of the Mists awaits their reply.
Scene: Dreamscape — Lake Zarovich
EXT. SOUTH SHORE — NIGHTFALL
The lake glimmers like polished obsidian, a mirror of night without a single star.
The rowboats rest untouched along the shore, their hulls beaded with cold dew.
Mist curls low across the water, coiling around the party’s feet like pale serpents.
Ezra stands before them — cloak trailing like smoke, brooch gleaming faintly:
a sprig of belladonna upon a silver shield, the sigil that has followed them through dream and omen.
Her voice is soft. Measured. Unmistakably divine.
EZRA: “Do you know what desire escaped Strahd’s clutches on that night ten years ago?”
She does not wait for an answer. She knows they know.
Her pale gray eyes drift to Ireena, who stands trembling, breath caught in her throat.
EZRA (CONT’D): “It was you.”
She steps closer, her gaze gentle — too gentle for the truth she carries.
EZRA (CONT’D): “I have brought you to this dream to show you a vision of peace — a future that may yet be.”
She turns toward the lake.
The mist parts around her feet as though bowing.
EZRA (CONT’D): “As Guardian of the Mists, I know the desires that lie in the pit of Strahd’s soul. He craves freedom. But he craves conquest more.”
The water darkens, swallowing the last of the twilight.
EZRA (CONT’D): “And he dares not flee the Mists if it means relinquishing the one conquest he has always failed to make: Tatyana’s soul.”
She looks back to the party, her expression solemn, ancient, unyielding.
EZRA (CONT’D): “I can prevent him from claiming Ireena. From claiming the soul she carries. I can take her soul from this dream and hide it away in the Mists, where Strahd cannot find it. Until the cycle of reincarnation spins her out once again.”
She steps to the water’s edge. The lake does not ripple. The mist does not stir.
EZRA (CONT’D) : “If I do, this future may yet come to pass. Life rather than death. Light rather than shadow. Peace rather than war.”
She turns to Ireena, voice gentle as falling ash.
EZRA (CONT’D): “To accept, you need only wade into the waters of Lake Zarovich and submerge yourself completely. The Mists will take you to a place beyond his reach.”
The offer is made. The lake is still. And the Guardian of the Mists awaits their reply.
🎬 Final Beat
The choice is offered. The future hangs in balance. And the waters begin to stir.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits Play over: Fabomusic - Into the Mists