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 in a traveler’s lantern swinging from a rusted pole. A gust extinguishes it.
Glyphs shimmer across the screen like frostbitten veins—a six-pointed sigil crackling with arcane cold.
BAROVIA
The title etches itself across a weathered milestone buried in moss beside the road.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | Old Svalich Road
Wide shots of fog-choked wilderness.
Boot prints vanishing behind the party as the mist closes in.
Ravens burst from leafless trees, scattering like warnings.
A broken signpost reads: “Barovia — 2 miles” before snapping in half.
The gallows stand empty…but not still.
🙍♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Wanderers
Fog-framed vignettes catch them in motion:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) adjusting a blade as he walks, his reflection fractured in a puddle dark as ink.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) pressing a glowing handprint onto a sycamore, its bark veins briefly pulsing with light.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) running a hand along fresh claw marks gouged into an old birch trunk.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) drawing sigils in the mud with the base of his staff—each one swallowed by the fog moments later.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) tossing a coin skyward at a crossroads; it doesn’t land.
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 is pulled from beneath a cloak and pressed into the dirt.
Symbols bloom like bruises.
The map redraws itself—not Barovia, but the winding arteries of the Old Svalich Road
Strahd Von Zarovich grins at the camera, the leer of a predator—
as tarot cards flip themselves, one by one, onto a moss-covered stone.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note
Five silhouettes walk single-file past the Gate Towers.
The gate slams shut, throwing up a shockwave of dust.
The forest ahead moans softly.
A black carriage moves silently thorugh the fog.
Behind them, Barovia vanishes—not forgotten, but watching.
Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN:
Background Music: Strahd von Zarovich | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Cello Theme | Loop
Rain slashes the air—sharp, incessant. The gravel breathes mist. Pools of water catch torchlight like molten silver. The carriage door gapes, a mouth mid-scream.
Strahd stands like a statue of himself. Cloak pressed flat against him, untouched by the storm. His boots gleam dry. Mist curls around his feet as if worshiping.
The party halts—a breath held too long.
Fleetwood steps into frame.
One measured stride. Then another. He plants his feet. The sword remains sheathed, but his hand hovers—tense, uncertain. His voice steadies itself:
FLEETWOOD (quietly defiant) “What do you want, Nosferatu?”
Strahd’s gaze turns toward him with the gravity of a planet. No mirth. No menace. Just weight.
He studies Fleetwood like one might a cracked sculpture.
Fleeting disappointment. Mild recognition.
STRAHD (calm, precise) “A borrowed name—wielded bravely.”
His eyes pass Fleetwood, one by one, to Silverleaf, Felonious, Greegan.
Each glance is quiet invasion.
Each face, catalogued.
His gaze lingers. Curious. Detached.
Ireena stiffens. Chin high. Fingers shaking on the hilt she dares not draw.
Strahd’s expression shifts—fractionally.
STRAHD (softening, wistful) “But it is not him I am here for.” (beat) “I hoped the threads would lead you here.”
IREENA (flat, firm): “We don’t belong to you.”
A silence. Long enough for thunder to break it.
Strahd’s smile is almost tragic.
STRAHD: “Belong? No. I’m no thief of will. Just a keeper of memory.” (beat) “And a devotee of those who walk willingly into shadow.”
The party unconsciously tightens behind Fleetwood.
No blades drawn—yet.
But the promise of violence hums in the rain.
Strahd doesn’t react. He simply watches.
Like a man who knows how every story ends.
FELONIOUS : (to Greegan, low) “If he offers tea—pretend you hate leaves.”
The party watches, tight-knit. No swords drawn, but no peace offered.
Strahd smiles.
Warm. Measured.
Terribly polite.
STRAHD: “It’s a pleasure to meet the newcomers to my domain. Your names have traveled well—echoed warmly around many a fire.” (He glances toward Felonious, something mischievous dancing in his eye.) “Even in tongues no longer belonging to the living.”
Felonious freezes—whether in pride or dread, it’s hard to say.
A beat.
Strahd turns to Ireena. His voice lowers, honeyed—like a schoolmaster addressing the pupil who surpassed expectations.
STRAHD: “I trust the Lady Kolyana offered you a suitable welcome to Barovia? Though I do hope she didn’t lean too heavily on our folktales. Rural places cling to superstition like heirlooms.”
Silverleaf shifts.
Fleetwood’s jaw locks.
Felonious bites his lip, teeth scraping skin.
IREENA (cold) : “We’ve met your stories. They bleed.”
Strahd’s smile fades—slightly. Not wounded. Not wary.
Just... thoughtful.
STRAHD: “Then we share something rare in this land. A taste for truth.” (He exhales. A breeze stirs.) “And that, dear friends, is always cause for conversation.”
He takes a single step forward.
Not threatening. Not forced.
Just enough to pull the air taut like piano wire.
STRAHD: (softly) “Would you grant me one?”
EXT. RIVER IVLIS CROSSROADS – NIGHTBLEED IN THE MIST
The last sigh of rain fades into the underbrush, leaving the world slick and shivering.
Strahd stands motionless, cloaked in mist and moonless shadow. Regal. Effortless. His posture needs no defense.
Fog twines at his boots like something old remembering love.
The party watches—still but strained. Hands hover near hilts. No one breathes deeply.
Clarion’s voice breaks the stillness.
A clear, cold note like steel against crystal.
CLARION: “What could something like you possibly say worth hearing?”
The question lingers—sharp as a blade left unsheathed.
Strahd smiles.
Not wounded.
Not challenged.
Merely... amused.
STRAHD (softly, as to cherished guests) “Nothing at all, dear Clarion. Not if you listen like a skeptic instead of a seeker.”
He begins to pace—a slow, measured drift across the gravel. Hands clasped behind his back. Eyes faintly aglow beneath the dripping brim of his cloak.
He stops.
STRAHD: “But as I have the honor of your company... A toast, if not with wine—then with words.”
He bows to Clarion. Precisely. Elegantly.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “Clarion. A name that tolls like bells in a forgotten cathedral. Paladin of radiant intent, wreathed in grief as though it were sacrament. You wear pain like armor. But the dead know better.” (a pause—his tone dims) “Still, it becomes you. And I admit... I admire those who burn just to prove they haven’t frozen.”
He turns to Silverleaf.
STRAHD: “And Silverleaf. The whisper of the bowstring, the judgment in your eyes. So sure. So swift. How cruel it would be to miss the one target that matters.”
Silverleaf’s mouth twitches.
Not a smile.
A caution.
Strahd chuckles—low and dry.
Then turns to Felonious.
STRAHD: “Felonious. Fire-jester. You hurl sparks with every word— but do you laugh because death dances closer? Or does the laughing call him faster?”
Felonious doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.
Strahd shifts to Greegan, the rogue poised and unreadable.
STRAHD: “Greegan. Smoke with footsteps. You slip between truths like ink in water. I’ve seen thieves with sharper blades but few with cleaner exits. I wonder—does your loyalty move faster than you do?” (beat) “Loyalty. How terribly rare.”
Last, his gaze falls on Fleetwood, still subtly shielding the group, still unrattled—barely.
STRAHD: “And Fleetwood. Your silence speaks louder than your sword. You endure. You protect. But tell me— how often have you mistaken being left behind for being brave?”
Fleetwood shifts—shoulders tighter, knuckles white.
Strahd steps back, inhaling the moment.
The group.
The fear.
The resolve.
STRAHD: “I came not to threaten. Only to welcome. And to correct a story—
should Lady Kolyana have told it too crudely, rhymed too sharply for tender ears.”
IREENA spits.
The sound is visceral, final.
IREENA: “You are the nightmare, Strahd. They just gave you rhymes.”
Strahd’s smile remains.
Gentle.
Unapologetic.
STRAHD: “And yet... you still speak my name. And you have not answered yet: What should I do with you?”
The mist thickens.
The carriage groans behind.
Above them, Escher watches from the box seat.
Unmoving.
Patient.
As if time owed him nothing.
No reply.
Just breath held like a secret.
Then—
Greegan steps forward.
Hood drawn low. Boots soundless in the sludge.
His gaze—sharp, unreadable—meets Strahd’s. No challenge. No submission. Just weight.
GREEGAN: “That depends. Truth—or another lie to cradle in your coffin?” (beat)
”Do what you will. It doesn’t matter what we say. But you already know… we don’t kneel.”
No twitch. No blink.
Strahd remains still—but the fog thickens behind him.
The carriage creaks.
A sound rises from within: wet. Breathing. Alive.
STRAHD: “You wear defiance like perfume. Heavy. Familiar. Fleeting.”
A shape moves in shadow—just visible to Silverleaf.
She flinches. Subtle. Controlled.
STRAHD (cont’d) : “Still… courage deserves clarity.”
He lifts a hand.
Graceful. Intentional.
Snap.
A scream splits the mist.
Greegan stumbles, clutching his head.
Flashes:
A woman—dying, whispering his name.
Blood—his? Hers?
A blade he shouldn’t have kept.
Eyes—gone. Gone and known.
Clarion gasps. Fleetwood surges forward—too slow.
Greegan hits one knee, breath shattered, eyes blown wide.
Strahd lowers his hand.
STRAHD: “I asked what I should do.” (voice like silk over bone) “Some answers… taste better when they scream.”
The fog leans in, whispering through roots and ribs.
Clarion steps forward. Her holy symbol gleams, refracting the last starlight.
CLARION: “Enough. Let him go.”
Strahd tilts his head. Curious. Measuring.
CLARION (cont’d) : “You speak of justice—this is cruelty. We may be strangers... but we are not yours.”
She plants herself. Her voice builds.
CLARION (cont’d): “Not unless you want to see what divinity does when cornered.”
The fog halts.
The air shivers.
Strahd blinks once.
Then lowers his hand.
Greegan exhales—torn, but returned.
Strahd studies Clarion with something almost like reverence.
STRAHD: “Authority without hesitation. A rare currency in these lands.” (beat)
Very well. A pardon— For Walter. For the Dursts. Let their house keep its curses.”
Relief flickers through the group—quiet, unsure.
But Strahd’s smile cools.
STRAHD (cont’d): Yet your presence… remains inconvenient.” (He surveys them.)
”You are trespassers. The last outsider brought sedition, was betrayed, and had his heart torn free.” (beat) “So tell me— why should I not dispatch you now, before history repeats?”
The night stills.
A crow stirs, cawing—then silences mid-call.
Clarion steps forward again.
Conviction behind her breath.
CLARION: “Because mercy is strength. Even you know vengeance isn’t justice. We stood in defense. We stand with purpose. If your rule means more than terror—
Then you know it.”
Strahd’s smile changes—more teeth this time.
STRAHD: “Ah. A teacher.” (beat) “Then allow me… to grade the lesson.”
His voice hums low.
A toll you feel, not hear.
Clarion gasps, dropping her symbol as if seared.
She sinks—one knee—mist swirling like recognition.
Felonious scoffs, stepping in beside her.
FELONIOUS: “Forgive her, old prince. She sermonizes when the air smells tyrannical.” (bows) “And if you smite every guest in your land, your schedule must be murder.”
Strahd turns slowly.
Eyes lock on Felonious.
Three heartbeats. No movement.
STRAHD: “Clown… meet cathedral.”
Felonious’s grin flickers.
The air chills.
Meanwhile—Silverleaf lifts Greegan, whispered:
“Not nap-time, shadow man.”
Fleetwood steps forward.
Tension in his spine.
Voice rough from restraint.
FLEETWOOD: “You could bury us in your mud. But tell me— when was the last time something surprised you?” (hand on blade) “We may be fools. But we’re not yours. And maybe… that’s the part you’ve lost.”
The mist coils.
Strahd says nothing.
Then—
STRAHD: “A chorus of courage. A jest in poor taste. And a knight with dented steel.” (softly) “Barovia will find your shape soon enough.”
His gaze settles on Ireena.
He steps forward—not menacing. Just certain.
STRAHD: “One final note… before our paths diverge.” (voice lifts) “The Lady Kolyana is claimed. Marked in heart. And blood. Why should I not take what is already mine?”
The clearing clenches.
Clarion rises, light blooming.
CLARION: “Because she is not yours. She is not a thing. We will stand between her and every shadow—”
Strahd lifts a finger.
Clarion’s symbol ignites.
She drops it.
Rain hisses where metal touches mud.
STRAHD: “So eager to burn, little paladin?”
Fleetwood steps forward, blade half-drawn.
FLEETWOOD: “Then try. Take her.” (teeth bare) “And learn—flesh still bleeds.
Even yours.”
A gust shrieks—
The ground cracks, black and bottomless beneath Fleetwood’s feet.
He catches himself.
Strahd doesn’t smile.
Just watches.
Then—
Greegan coughs.
The moment pivots.
Still pale. Still sore.
He shrugs Silverleaf off—barely.
GREEGAN: “If you could… you’d have done it. You wouldn’t need our permission.”
Strahd watches—his eyes tighten.
GREEGAN (cont’d): “But you didn’t. You asked. Something’s in your way. Maybe her.
Maybe us.” (beat) “Keep playing monarch. But the minute you stop asking, and start taking— you’ll show us exactly where to aim.”
Silence.
The wind dies.
Strahd chuckles.
Low. Delighted.
STRAHD: “How bold the candle wax becomes— when it senses the room’s forgotten fire.”
EXT. RIVER IVLIS CROSSROADS – NIGHT’S DEPARTURE
Rain-stained silence.
Strahd turns.
A sweep of his cloak cuts through the mist, trailing shadows like history.
He enters the black carriage, the door shutting not with violence, but finality—
a seal closing.
A vault locking.
Escher waits atop the coach—smiling as if privy to the next ten chapters.
The reins crack like a magician’s whip.
A wink? Perhaps. But fleeting.
The carriage lurches forward, wheels kissing slick stone, carving time into the earth.
Then—
The fog breathes.
Not dispersing.
Parting.
Shapes rise.
Massive. Elegant. Terrible.
Wolves.
Not beasts.
Not tools.
Heralds.
They emerge with grace, with silence, with purpose—
like forgotten kings returning from exile.
Their paws rattle stones.
Eyes glow like cinders waiting for wind.
Teeth—daggers carved from ivory and myth.
Breath misting in measured cadence.
Seven dire wolves.
One for each party member.
And one for Ireena. Each the size of a small horse.
They flank the carriage with military precision—
not wild, but woven.
Silverleaf gasps.
Hand halfway to her bow.
Too late.
Too reverent.
SILVERLEAF: (whispering) “…Gods. I didn’t hear them.” (beat) “I should have.”
The wolves don’t look.
They don't snarl.
They escort.
The carriage turns the bend, slipping into deeper mist.
Its wheels echo—
tick...
tick...
tick...
Like an old clock remembering how to count.
And then—
The wolves dissolve.
Fog swallows them.
Veil reclaims its veil.
All that remains—
the crossroads.
And the silence.
FADE TO BLACK
End credits play over: Lita Ford, Ozzy Osbourne - Close My Eyes Forever (Lyrics)
(RIP Ozzy. Played this session the day he left us.)