Opening credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (Revised: “The Lantern and the Latch”)
Melodic War Productions presents:
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal A lit candle in a lantern swings gently—but this time, it holds. Charms of bone and ribbon sway from the pole beside it, casting distorted shadows. Glyphs shimmer across the screen like breath on glass— the sigil now pulsing faintly, as if waking.
BAROVIA etched across a milestone—but this one is carved with swirling symbols and half-faded warnings. A faint violin hum plays beneath the wind.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | Old Svalich Road The wilderness recedes—just slightly. Fog parts to reveal the edge of a camp: lanterns swinging between crooked posts. Boot prints merge with wagon tracks. Ravens perch now—not fleeing, but watching. A broken signpost points back the way they came. The gallows? Still empty... but garlanded with old Vistani ribbons, fluttering like half-remembered prayers.
🙍♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Wanderers Still in motion, now limned in firelight:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) passes a caravan, brushing fingers over faded glyphs carved in its wheel.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneels beside a hanging charm that rings softly in her presence.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) pets the raven’s neck, eyes on a nearby tent flap.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) lifts a steaming cup, staring at its reflection in the stew.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) plays with dice carved from bone—one lands, one doesn’t.
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 ring glints in firelight as it’s passed between two hands. Sigils bloom not on maps, but on faces—tattoos, scars, birthmarks. The campfire flares and dims in rhythm with unseen strings. Strahd’s face appears—faint, reflected in tea, then gone. Tarot cards ripple across the screen, mid-shuffle. One lands face-up: The Seer.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note The party sits beside the fire, backs to the forest. The forest leans close, its sounds muffled—as if listening. A Vistani fiddle plays a phrase unfinished. The camera pans upward—fog above the treetops twists into a crescent, then vanishes. The camp looks safe… but its shadows hold breath.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
EXT. TSER POOL – EVENING, JUST BEFORE DARKNESS
Background Music: Vistani Campfire | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1 h Ambience and Background Music | Loop
The forest opens without warning.
The party crests the last ridge of twisted trees—and the Tser Pool glows gently below, like a memory held in warm hands. Lanterns sway between posts. The campfire’s gold breath wavers in the twilight.
They approach slowly.
Vistani tents ripple in the breeze, colored deep crimsons and indigos. A circle of caravans guard the heart of the camp like sentinels long past caring. Laughter floats up—real laughter—too casual, too calm for a world that just tried to gut them with feathers and fire.
Several Vistani sit cross-legged by the fire, drinking and swapping stories, faces flickering in the firelight. One is playing a strange tune on a fiddle. Another stirs a pot that smells like stew and faintly of anise and smoke.
None look up as the battered party approaches.
Not at the arrow nicks.
Not at the ash in their cloaks.
Not even at the raven cradled in Silverleaf’s arms.
Felonious leans toward Ireena, eyes narrowing as a woman in velvet takes a puff of her pipe, smirks, and returns to whatever tale she’s been spinning.
FELONIOUS (softly): “And... who exactly are they?” (He gestures with a smoldering glance. Vague gesture. Broad suspicion.) “More forest weirdos? Or do we trust these ones enough to eat their soup?”
Ireena watches them carefully. Something in her stiff posture eases, just slightly.
IREENA: “The Vistani. Nomads. Traders. Rumormongers, some say…” (Then, quieter.) “…And the only ones allowed to leave Barovia.”
Clarion’s interest increases at that. Fleetwood’s jaw ticks.
IREENA (continued): “They serve him, at least they used to. But sometimes they also help those trying to survive him.”
The violinist finishes a phrase with a flare. Someone claps lazily. The fire pops.
Silverleaf doesn't look away from the raven.
SILVERLEAF: (muttered) “And which of those do we count as?”
Before Ireena can answer, a low voice calls from the fire.
VISTANI MAN: “If you’re wondering what we put in the soup... you’ll find the answers taste like truth and root and maybe a little disappointment.” (He grins over the rim of his cup.) “Come warm your bones. Madam Eva’s waiting.”
EXT. TSER POOL – EVENING, THE WELCOME OF STANMIR
The party steps through the veil of twilight mist into the Vistani encampment—lanterns swaying, the fire at its center already stoked to a warm golden roar. Strings of charms clink gently in the trees, and the air smells of smoke, cinnamon, and something faintly metallic beneath.
From the firelight steps a man with a confident, easy gait. Broad-shouldered, his long dark coat worn but finely cut, he wears a gleaming ring and a smile sharp enough to split shadow. He pauses a breath, and then greets them like a host welcoming old friends. (Perhaps portrayed by someone like Ben Kingsley)
STANMIR: “Ireena Kolyana. Still standing straight in crooked lands. It’s good to see you again.”
IREENA nods cautiously, not quite smiling.
IREENA: “I remember your wine better than your name. But yes… it’s good to be here.”
Stanmir turns his gaze to the others—sweeping over Fleetwood’s caution, Silverleaf’s weariness, Greegan’s unreadable eyes, Clarion’s defensive poise, and Felonious’s half-smirk.
STANMIR: “And these would be… new flames at your side.” (He gives a shallow bow.) “I am Stanmir of the Vistani. I keep this fire’s edge sharp and its stories true. You’re strangers in Barovia, but guests here—if your hearts are curious and your hands stay polite.”
FELONIOUS, already eyeing the stew, tilts his head.
FELONIOUS: “You're the first people we’ve seen who don’t look like something’s hunting them.”
Stanmir chuckles.
STANMIR: “Because we know better than to run. And we’ve danced with the Devil often enough to know when he’s just watching, not pouncing.” (A pause. Then gently.) “If you're inclined, I can tell you more about us—how we live, how we move, and why we aren’t buried in this land like so many others.”
He gestures toward the fire. The Vistani laugh in soft counterpoint. The night leans in.
EXT. TSER POOL – NIGHT, FLAMES LEANING INWARD
The fire coils low and quiet, embers whispering upward like secrets too old to speak.
Stanmir studies the party through the veil of smoke and gold. His gaze lands on Clarion—and holds.
STANMIR (soft, with a trace of memory): “That bell. Etched silver... crescent-drop shape.
I saw one like it once—in the hands of a healer who swore her mercy could outrun death itself.” (Beat. Tilts head.) “You walk with Chardastes, don’t you?”
CLARION (subtle nod; fingers graze the bell) “Yes. The Merciful. The hand that heals where pain lingers. Where the soul still fights to stay whole.”
Stanmir’s smile narrows—less charm, more reverence.
STANMIR: “We met one of his near the steaming craters of Arypt. She carried a soldier through fire and plague and silence. Kept praying, even when the heavens stopped listening.” (Beat.) “If you’re half as stubborn, your friends may yet see morning.”
He leans back, letting the flames cast sharp light across the curve of his ring. He sips slow.
STANMIR (CONT'D): “So... how fares Chardastes in Mystara? Still whispered in moonlit chapels? Or did the age of steel and doctrine finally drown him?”
The bell at Clarion’s throat gives a soft, aching chime—like a reminder.
CLARION (Voice low, gaze distant) : “Mystara’s quiet now. The gods keep their peace.
Borders hold, but never kindly.” (She exhales.) “Bargle still stirs the pot—his name rots in every tavern I’ve passed. But even his chaos feels... quaint. Compared to this place.”
She glances toward the raven—bandaged, unmoving in Silverleaf’s arms.
Stanmir nods. Not smug. Just old with understanding.
STANMIR: “Barovia stretches the dark. Far enough that even your sunniest memories flicker like failing stars.” (He raises his cup.) “So hold tight to the small ones. They shine brighter for having survived.”
Felonious snorts—“quaint philosophy”—but drinks deeply.
Fleetwood watches Clarion now with a quiet shift in his eyes.
Greegan stirs the fire. Silent. Listening.
And Silverleaf, ever apart, lifts her gaze to the tree line. Searching.
Beyond the circle of firelight, something laughs.
A rustle. A breath. A memory waiting with teeth.
But for now, the party sits.
And peace in Barovia?
A gift wrapped in ash—and threaded through the hush between heartbeats.
EXT. TSER POOL – NIGHT, THE FIRE’S WHISPER
The fire hisses softly as Stanmir tops off his mug and gazes into the flame—his voice suddenly quieter, though no less sure.
STANMIR: “Truth be told… you weren’t a surprise.” (He looks up, half a smile playing on his lips.) “Madame Eva told me you'd come. Not when. Not how many. Just that I would know you when I saw you.”
The flickering orange glow paints shifting shadows on his face. Around them, the rest of the Vistani carry on, unrattled by the tension curled inside the party’s boots.
STANMIR (continued): “She didn’t say your names. But she described your steps.” (A glance at Silverleaf cradling the raven.) “The one who listens for things others miss.” (Toward Fleetwood.) “The one who never lowers his blade—not even in sleep.” (A nod to Clarion.) “The one who carries mercy like armor.” He shrugs. “And a few others. Yours was the only face she named, Ireena.”
IREENA tenses, her voice brittle.
IREENA: “Of course she did.”
STANMIR: (gently): “She asked that I bring you to her. All of you. When you arrived.” (He sets down his cup.) “I don’t know how she sees what she sees. Some say the mists talk to her. Others say she was old before Strahd had a name.”
He stands.
STANMIR (softly): “But she said your fates were tied to her hands. And her cards.”
The wind hushes through the trees. The fire crackles once.
From beyond the ring of wagons, a shadow stirs—and a warm red glow beckons within the largest tent.
The air feels suddenly thinner. Anticipation. Or warning.
INT. MADAME EVA’S TENT – NIGHT, BEYOND THE VEIL
Background: Curse of Strahd - Areas of Barovia - Madam Eva's Tent (Ambience)
The canvas parts like a page turned by fate.
Inside, the air is heavy with incense, dense and spiced—something like juniper and burnt myrrh. The walls are lined with crimson and indigo tapestries embroidered in a style too old for memory. Symbols twist in the candlelight, watching back.
In the center, beneath a ring of soft-glowing lanterns, sits Madame Eva. (Portrayed by someone like Shohreh Aghdashloo)
She might be the oldest woman they have ever seen—a face lined like cracked leather, hair long and white as frost-bleached stone, eyes clouded and sharp all at once. Yet she doesn’t hunch, or falter. She does not tremble.
She waits like someone who has already seen the moment you walk in.
Her hand, tipped with crooked rings, lifts without sound.
MADAME EVA: (low and firm) “Enter. I’ve been dreaming your footsteps for nights now.”
The party steps in, slowly, as if into a memory they've never lived.
She gestures for no one to sit—yet somehow, they all do.
Then, her eyes sweep the circle.
She begins.
She points at Felonious, lips curling as if suppressing a grin.
MADAME EVA: “You—The Ember Wit. Trickster of truths. You dance too close to your own smoke. But your fire still burns clean... when it must.”
Felonious blinks, then bows slightly. “Haven’t heard that one before. I might steal it.”
She turns to Silverleaf, her smile flickering colder.
MADAME EVA: “Shadow-Tethered. The Hunter With No Pack. You listen too well, girl. Even the dead know your name.”
Silverleaf says nothing. But the raven in her arms stirs.
Then her eyes rest on Greegan.
MADAME EVA: “The Knife Behind the Lantern. Still deciding if you serve light—or simply hate the dark.”
Greegan’s mouth twists like he almost smiles. But not quite.
She looks to Fleetwood next, her gaze long. He sits straighter, unconsciously, as if bracing for judgment.
MADAME EVA: “Blade-Warded. The Unyielding Edge. You would throw yourself into Hell to keep others from the smoke. You already have.”
Her hand hovers… then drifts, slowly… to Clarion.
And here, her voice softens.
MADAME EVA: “Mercy-Bound.” (A pause.) “Your kindness has weight. And it is cracking.”
A silence hums.
Then her eyes flick between Clarion and Fleetwood. Something unreadable sparkles at the corner of her mouth.
MADAME EVA (quietly): “There’s an argument you’ve both rehearsed but not yet spoken. It will come. And when it does, remember: mercy is not the opposite of steel.”
Fleetwood looks down.
Clarion grips the bell around her throat.
The lanterns flicker.
Madame Eva leans forward, her hands resting on a worn deck of cards.
INT. MADAME EVA’S TENT – NIGHT
The air thickens with unspoken tension as the last echoes of Madame Eva’s epithets fade into the fabric of the tent.
But before her hands move to the cards, she tilts her head—not at the adventurers this time, but at the fragile, battered raven curled in Silverleaf’s lap.
Her expression shifts.
Not calculation. Not mystery.
Warmth.
A private kind of sorrow.
MADAME EVA (softly): “May I?”
Silverleaf hesitates, unsure whether from instinct or protectiveness.
Then she nods.
The old seer leans forward, gnarled hands extending. The raven doesn’t resist, though its wing flickers as if remembering.
Madame Eva lifts it gently, fingers gliding over the wounded frame.
MADAME EVA (whispering): “She’s seen far. Far more than a bird should. She watches, yes—but not just for you.” (Her voice drops further.) “…This one was born beneath omens.”
She exhales—nostalgic, almost wistful.
MADAME EVA: “Once, I had a raven of my own. His name was Turul.” (Her eyes unfocus, voice thinning into reverie.) “He followed me through nine borders and one dream. Slept on maps. Stole dice. Laughed at thunder.”
She smiles, worn at the edges.
MADAME EVA (continued): “I haven’t seen him in… years. Perhaps he’s wild now. Or forgotten me. They do that, you know. When they’re free long enough.”
The tent is still.
Even Felonious doesn’t speak.
Clarion watches the woman with a faint ache in her throat.
Fleetwood watches the door. Because it suddenly feels very far away.
Eva gently returns the raven to Silverleaf’s cloak.
MADAME EVA (low, to the bird): “Fly well, little watcher. Or don’t. There is no shame in staying grounded.”
INT. MADAME EVA’S TENT – NIGHT, THE CANDLE KNOWS TOO MUCH
A low wind outside brushes the tent walls like fingers tugging at secrets.
Felonious squints toward the canvas flap, his tone light—but laced with tension.
FELONIOUS: “Strahd’s carriage. It came from this way, didn’t it? Wheels don’t lie. Just… creak too loud.” (He glances sideways at Madame Eva.) “Did he visit you?”
Madame Eva does not flinch. Her hand hovers above the card deck, her face impassive. But her gaze—her gaze flickers just slightly, as if the question had already echoed in the room before it was spoken.
MADAME EVA: “Yes.” (A single word. Soft. Heavy as stone dropped in deep water.) “He came. As he has before. I read for him.”
That quiet hangs for a breath too long.
Clarion stiffens. Fleetwood’s hand brushes the hilt at his side.
Silverleaf closes the raven’s wing.
FELONIOUS (sharply): “And? What did he want to know?”
MADAME EVA’s eyes narrow—kindly. But with finality.
MADAME EVA: “That... I cannot tell you.” (She smooths a wrinkle in the tablecloth, though it was never there.) “The questions a man asks the cards are his alone. Their answers even more so. The cards demand trust. And privacy. Even from monsters.”
She lifts the deck, and the lanterns above her flicker in rhythm—not from wind. But from waiting.
MADAME EVA (softly): “But know this: He’s playing too. He always plays.”
The lanterns hold their glow like breath on the verge of a scream.
Felonious, still half lounging in his seat, gives a dry smile—masking unease beneath bravado.
FELONIOUS: “It’s not the first time I’ve gambled with monsters.” (He swirls his fingers above the table.) “Sometimes they bluff. Sometimes they eat the dealer.”
Madame Eva does not smile.
She looks at him like someone who’s already read the punchline carved in his bones.
She places a hand on the deck.
MADAME EVA (quietly): “Then you know what it costs.”
Her fingers tense. Not in fear. In gravity.
The candles flicker once—not from wind, but from something older inhaling.
Then her face darkens. Not theatrically.
Genuinely.
MADAME EVA (coldly solemn): “You stand upon the precipice of a cliff whose base you cannot yet see.” (Her voice is both whisper and bell.) “Do you understand what you ask of me?”
The tent goes still.
Even the fire outside seems to hush.
Fleetwood’s hand drops from his blade. Clarion watches Eva—unblinking. Greegan leans forward just slightly, like a knife deciding if it will be drawn.
Silverleaf gently adjusts the raven, but says nothing. She knows this kind of silence. She grew up in it.
Madame Eva looks at each of them—not demanding obedience.
But respect.
And perhaps one last chance to turn away.
Fleetwood nods once—firm, grim.
FLEETWOOD: “We’re in. Have been since we saw that damn haunted house, whether we wanted it or not.”
But she does not move.
Her hand hovers over the cards, then drifts back—as if recoiling from heat not yet felt. Her eyes turn toward the tent wall, not in confusion, but in knowing.
Her voice falls to a hush, its tone wrapped in velvet shadow.
MADAME EVA: “No. Not yet.” (She closes her eyes.) “A shadow is approaching my tent. A lone servant of Darkness.” (The lanterns dim a breath.) “They seek knowledge of your future—secrets I am sworn never to reveal to any but their keepers.”
The tent seems to fold in on itself for a moment.
Time goes still.
She opens her eyes. They gleam—not with fear, but warning.
MADAME EVA (to Clarion, gently but firm): “Do not look, child. Nor rush to greet them. If they learn of your true aspirations… all may be lost.” (Then, sweeping gaze across the group.) “Do not reveal even that you know who they are. For their master will know I’ve spoken—and his wrath will fall like judgment from the bones of the land itself.”
Outside, the campfire crackles unnaturally loud.
Silverleaf holds the raven a little tighter.
Greegan’s hand goes to a hidden blade.
But Madame Eva holds up a single finger.
Madame Eva: “You must not act. Not yet. Let them pass. Let them ask. Let them leave.”
INT. MADAME EVA’S TENT – NIGHT, BEFORE THE SHADOW ARRIVES
The tent feels smaller now—like breath held too long.
Madame Eva closes her hand around the deck of cards, sealing it tight like a wound that mustn’t bleed too early.
Her voice is quiet, but firm with purpose.
MADAME EVA: “If you still seek the reading… if you still wish to glimpse the path ahead, then meet me— at midnight, where the roads cross.”
A hush falls again, but this time it’s different.
Not warning. Invitation.
Her gaze moves slowly across the party, holding just a beat longer on each face than should be possible.
MADAME EVA (continued): “Until then, I can say no more. The eyes that near this tent would steal truths not meant for them. And the cost for that… you would not bear it alone.”
The flap of the tent rustles faintly—no one pulls it aside.
But the air beyond it thickens like smoke… or suspicion.
MADAME EVA: “Go. Appear unchanged. Laugh, if you can. This land devours those who flinch.”
The cards vanish beneath her shawl.
Her eyes close.
And the tent once again becomes just canvas, shadow, and silence.
EXT. TSER POOL – JUST AFTER THE TENT, THE SHADOW WATCHES BACK
Background music: Vistani Campfire | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1 h Ambience and Background Music | Loop
The canvas parts behind them with a hush—not quite a closing, more like the forest swallowing a secret.
The party steps into the open air again, the campfire crackling steadily nearby, unchanged. And yet—everything feels different.
The two Vistani standing nearby turn casually at the sound. A man with a silver-threaded sash leans against a barrel, smoking something sweet. Beside him stands a tall woman in a sapphire cloak, her expression warm but unreadable. (Portrayed by Rosa Salazar)
It is she who speaks, her smile easy.
ELIZA: “You must be the ones Stanmir mentioned.” (She steps forward, offering a respectful nod—not deferential, not probing. Just… familiar.) “Welcome to Tser Pool. I’m Eliza.”
The man beside her chuckles and tips an invisible hat.
ELIZA (to him): “Don’t even think about it, Marek.”
(Back to the party.)
“He talks more after wine. You got the quiet version.”
Felonious lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.
Fleetwood scans them both. No obvious weapons. No talismans humming with magic. No blood beneath the fingernails.
Still—he doesn't relax.
Silverleaf shifts slightly, keeping her cloak over the raven. But Eliza doesn’t peer or pry.
ELIZA (gently): “You met with Eva, then. Not everyone walks out with their minds intact—or their hearts in the same place.” (She pauses. Her eyes flick toward the river.) “The water’s calm now. Doesn’t mean it will be tomorrow.”
Clarion simply nods.
And Greegan?
He lingers for a moment, eyes settling on Marek’s posture, the way his fingers fiddle with the edge of his sash like someone used to sleight of hand. And then… Greegan smiles. Just a little. As if something clicks.
These might not be his people.
But he knows their language.
And that matters.
FADE TO BLACK:
End Credits play over: Gypsy