Opening credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (Revised: “The Road to Vallaki”)
Melodic War Productions presents:
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Lantern Leads
A single lantern swings from a crooked post at the edge of a forest path—its flame steady despite the mist. Beneath it, a trail of bootprints fades into damp earth. Ribbons tied to skeletal trees flutter like warning flags. A deck of cards lies scattered, half-buried in leaves. The screen exhales: BAROVIA etched into a moss-covered milestone. The camera pans to reveal a signpost: Vallaki – 12 miles.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | The Road Awakens
The forest leans inward. Branches claw at the sky. A Vistani wagon rolls past, its lanterns casting dancing shadows on bark that seems to flinch. Ravens fly overhead, then vanish into the canopy. A hand—weathered, ringed, trembling—reaches into frame and turns over a card nailed to a tree: The Traitor. A charm of bone and braid dangles from the signpost, spinning faster than the wind allows.
🚶♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Travelers Move Forward
The wanderers walk the road, each step echoing with memory:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) walks apart from the others, eyes scanning the treeline for threats that never quite show themselves.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) strides ahead, her cloak billowing like stormclouds, her gaze fixed on something unseen.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) trails her fingers along the bark, whispering to the raven that follows them.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) mutters incantations under his breath, the air around him shimmering faintly.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) rolls his bone dice as he walks—they clatter against stone, revealing The Marionette and The Horseman.
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 | The Fortunes Shift
The scattered cards rise from the ground, spinning in midair. Five remain suspended: The Traitor, The Horseman, The Innocent, The Marionette, The Darklord. As each is drawn, the forest reacts—leaves fall upward, shadows stretch, a distant howl pierces the silence. Behind the cards, Strahd’s silhouette flickers like a mirage—never present, always watching.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note: Vallaki Looms
The party crests a hill. Below: the distant lights of Vallaki flicker like candles in a crypt. The final card lands in Silverleaf’s hand: The Artifact. The forest hushes. Even the ravens stop cawing. Fog curls into the shape of a gate, then dissipates. The road continues… but the destination is no longer in question.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
Background Music: Sarah McLachlan - Possession
EXT. THE BLEEDING WOOD – SHADOWED CLEARING BENEATH DARK BOUGHS
The clearing holds its breath.
Strahd stands inches from Silverleaf—his presence not warm, not cold, but inevitable. His hand hovers mid-air, fingers relaxed. Not reaching. Not demanding. Just waiting.
Silverleaf doesn’t speak.
She breathes.
Once.
Twice.
A tremor runs through her—not fear, not revulsion. Something older. Something buried deep in the marrow of her clan’s memory. The woods remember. So does she.
Then—
She steps back.
Slow. Reluctant. But hers.
Fleetwood exhales, sharp and sudden. Greegan’s grip on his sword doesn’t loosen. The bark beneath his knuckles cracks.
Silverleaf turns. Her face unreadable.
But her eyes— Not ashamed. Not defiant. Just… changed.
Because the Calarii do not fall easily.
But Strahd is not a fall. He is gravity. He is the shape the fall takes when it learns your name.
And for a heartbeat—he had her.
Strahd tilts his head, amused. Not disappointed. As if the first move has been made, and the board is set.
STRAHD (silken, amused) “So few walk away when the music is sweet. Tell me—was it loyalty? Or simply poor timing?”
He glances at Fleetwood. At Greegan. Not as threats. As witnesses. Uninvited. But not yet punished.
Silverleaf meets his gaze.
SILVERLEAF: “…I came for answers. Not chains.”
Strahd’s smile sharpens. He steps back— and begins to dissolve. Mist coils around his boots. Leaf-shadow swallows his form.
STRAHD: (voice fading) “Even freedom binds, my dear.”
A flicker of his silhouette behind a tree.
STRAHD (O.S.) “We’ll speak again.”
Gone.
The clearing exhales. The weight lifts—slightly.
Fleetwood steps forward.
FLEETWOOD “You okay?”
Silverleaf doesn’t look at him.
SILVERLEAF “No.” (beat) “But I walked away.”
Greegan nods. That’s enough. For now.
The woods remain. Watching. Waiting.
EXT. THE BLEEDING WOOD – DEPARTING THE CLEARING
The silence clings to them like damp wool. Not oppressive. Just… unwilling to let go.
The vampire may be gone, but the air still tastes of him—metallic, sweet, wrong.
Fleetwood glances back once. Then exhales. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out like steam.
Silverleaf walks ahead. Silent. But walking.
And that’s enough.
Behind them, Greegan mutters—voice low, rough, trying too hard to sound unfazed.
GREEGAN: “First Ireena. Then Clarion. Now you…” (He spits into the brush.) “That walking bloodsucker’s got more thirst than charm. Makes me look subtle.”
Fleetwood snorts—an actual laugh, sharp and sudden.
FLEETWOOD: “That’s a new low bar.”
GREEGAN: (grumbling) “Hey, I don’t flirt with people who’re half-possessed or half-asleep. That guy looks at you like he’s choosing spices.”
Silverleaf doesn’t answer.
But the corner of her mouth twitches. Just enough.
She’s still herself. Still listening. Still here.
They pass the boundary stones—worn, moss-covered, half-swallowed by the forest.
Beyond them: A world that still pretends to make sense.
For now.
EXT. FOREST ROADSIDE – EARLY AFTERNOON – A STAND OF BIRCH AND MIST
Background Music: Lands of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The birch trees shimmer pale against the mist. Stillness hangs heavy—like breath held backstage.
Felonious leans against a low stone outcrop, eyes scanning the shadows. His lute rests across his back, but one hand hovers near his spell pouch.
Clarion sits beside Ireena, shield planted in the soil, blade across her lap. Her gaze never leaves the treeline.
CLARION (soft) “It’s quiet. But it smells like him. Like a crypt left open too long.”
Felonious nods. No argument. Just a shift in stance.
Then—branches part.
Fleetwood and Greegan step into view. Behind them, lighter-footed, slower—
Silverleaf.
She moves like someone returning from somewhere deep. Her cloak brushes leaves aside. Her hair is tangled, as if the forest tried to keep her.
Her eyes are clear. Her posture steady. But something in her— not broken, not dimmed— just… changed.
Clarion rises, concern etched across her brow.
CLARION: “Are you all right? What happened?”
Silverleaf stops before her. Tilts her head. And speaks—plainly. No shame. No panic. Just truth.
SILVERLEAF “A part of me wanted him.” (She holds Clarion’s gaze.) “He didn’t compel me. Didn’t force anything. That’s what made it worse.”
Silence folds around them. Even the wind seems to pause.
SILVERLEAF: (softer) “It was like staring into a story you thought you’d never belong to… and realizing it wants you.”
Fleetwood shifts, eyes flicking away. Greegan exhales—like he’s been holding it since the clearing. Felonious murmurs, voice low.
FELONIOUS : “Gods. That’s how he wins. Doesn’t take. Just offers.”
Clarion brushes a line of ash from her armor. Then looks up, voice steady.
CLARION: “We all feel the pull. You just got close enough to hear him whisper.”
Silverleaf nods. Once.
No apology. No denial.
Just truth.
The trees sway. The mist shifts.
And the road ahead waits.
EXT. ROAD BACK FROM THE BLEEDING WOOD – MID-AFTERNOON
The canopy thins. Light filters through in pale ribbons—enough to see the path. Not enough to trust it.
Fleetwood walks beside Clarion. His steps drag slightly, like his thoughts are heavier than his boots.
A long pause.
Then, quietly—
FLEETWOOD :(tentative) “When he looked at you… back at the crossroads… did any part of you want to say yes?”
Clarion stops. Brows lift, surprised. But her answer is immediate.
CLARION: (steady) “No.” (She meets his gaze) “There was power in his voice. And poison. But no temptation. I saw his shadow. And I knew it for what it was.”
Fleetwood nods. But something darker flickers behind his eyes.
His thumb brushes his lips—an old tell. A thought he doesn’t want to speak. But does.
FLEETWOOD: (low, haunted) “Silverleaf wasn’t bitten. Wasn’t compelled. Not exactly. And still… she turned toward him.” (His eyes drift forward—toward Ireena, walking between Felonious and Greegan, laughing softly.)
FLEETWOOD “So what happens to someone who is bitten?” (beat) “Not by teeth. But by something deeper. The kind of wound you don’t see. Only obey.”
Clarion follows his gaze.
The flicker of doubt in her eyes is faint. But it’s there.
Because they’ve all seen how Strahd looks at Ireena. How his voice wraps around her name like silk and smoke.
CLARION: (quiet, troubled) “Then we stand closer. And we watch better. That’s all we can do.”
Fleetwood doesn’t reply.
But his hand shifts—closer to his sword.
And his eyes never leave Ireena’s back.
Cut to:
EXT. NEARING THE CROSSROADS – SHADOW-STREAKED PATHWAY – LATE AFTERNOON
The path dips gently, roots knotting like veins beneath the soil. The trees begin to thin, but they don’t retreat—they watch.
Greegan walks beside Felonious. Their boots crunch the brittle remains of last autumn. Greegan’s brow is furrowed, jaw tight. His voice barely rises above the hush of wind.
GREEGAN (quiet) “Tell me something, Fel. You ever notice anything… special about Ireena?”
Felonious glances sideways. One brow lifts. His lips twitch toward mischief.
FELONIOUS “Besides the fact she tolerates your brooding silences and didn’t slap you for that sunflower stunt?” (He leans in, mock conspiratorial.) “Wait. Are you sweet on her?”
GREEGAN: (withering) “No.” (beat) “Well—maybe a little. Shut up. That’s not what I meant.”
Felonious smirks, but it fades. He senses the shift.
GREEGAN (continuing) “That vampire’s been circling us since the crossroads. He flirted with Clarion. Nearly pulled Silverleaf under.” (His voice drops) “But with Ireena… it wasn’t flirtation. It was recognition. Like he already owns a piece of her.”
Felonious’ smile vanishes.
FELONIOUS (serious now) “She doesn’t look that different from any other Barovian girl I’ve seen.” (beat) “Except the hair. That red—it’s too vivid. Like it refuses to fade with the rest of this place.” (He pauses, eyes narrowing.) “And the way she moves. Like she’s lived twice. And remembers both.” (He shrugs, softer.) “Could be poise. Could be survival.”
Greegan nods slowly. His gaze drifts toward Ireena, walking ahead.
GREEGAN: “Or maybe it’s what he sees in her. Whatever it is… I don’t think she knows.”
Felonious’ half-smile returns, faint and crooked.
FELONIOUS: “Or maybe you just fancy the mystery.”
GREEGAN: (deadpan) “I fancy surviving the week.”
They fall quiet.
Ahead, the crossroads emerge—still, silent, waiting.
And Ireena?
She walks forward, hair blazing like fire in a kingdom of ash.
EXT. CROSSROADS – LATE AFTERNOON – SHADOWS LENGTHEN
Background Music shifts: Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop
The sound hits first.
Not hooves—bone. Sharp. Rhythmic. Dry. Like a metronome made of teeth.
The party freezes mid-step.
Fleetwood’s hand drifts to his hilt. Clarion shifts instinctively, shielding Ireena with her body. Felonious rises, fingers twitching toward a cantrip that fizzles in the air.
From the western road, dust erupts— and through it, death rides.
A skeleton, rigid in the posture of a soldier long buried, mounted atop a skeletal horse whose hooves crack the earth like brittle glass. One hand clutches a blackened lantern—its flame long dead, its glass fractured but intact. The other shades its hollow sockets, as if scanning a horizon it cannot see.
It does not slow.
It does not speak.
It cleaves through the crossroads, bisecting the party like fog around a blade.
No glance. No gesture. Just the sound— hooves fading eastward, toward Barovia.
Silence.
Then—
GREEGAN: (deadpan) “…This place is messed up.”
Fleetwood exhales through his nose, sharp and short. Clarion murmurs a prayer she thought she'd forgotten. Felonious sits back down, slow, like gravity’s grown teeth.
Silverleaf watches the rider vanish into mist. And for the first time since the clearing, she looks almost comforted— as if that was the most honest thing she’s seen all day.
Ireena speaks softly, almost to herself.
IREENA “Should we be worried?”
Fleetwood doesn’t look away.
FLEETWOOD “We passed worried three days ago.”
EXT. CROSSROADS – DUSK SPREADING LIKE A VEIL
The hoofbeats are gone. But the echo lingers— in the marrow, in the dirt, in the hush between breaths.
The eastern road yawns open. A mouth. A warning.
Fleetwood breaks the silence, voice low but taut.
FLEETWOOD :“Should we follow it? Might’ve left a trail.”
Silverleaf doesn’t blink.
SILVERLEAF: “At that speed? Felonious’ mule would need divine intervention.” (beat) “And we’ve had enough roadside hauntings for one day. Vallaki’s ahead. So is night.”
Her eyes flick toward the trees. The shadows there don’t move. But they listen.
The party exchanges glances. No one eager to linger. No one eager to speak.
Felonious pats his cart horse’s neck, voice dry.
FELONIOUS: “She’s got many talents. Outrunning death isn’t one of them.”
Clarion looks east. The gloom thickens like breath on glass.
Her jaw sets.
CLARION “Then we move. Before the dark decides we’re part of the scenery.”
One by one, they fall into motion.
Back to the road. Back to purpose. Back to the illusion of safety.
Greegan, trailing behind, mutters just loud enough:
GREEGAN “Would be nice to sleep one night without a skeleton galloping through my afterthoughts.”
They walk.
And the road listens.
EXT. RUINED WATCHTOWER – EDGE OF THE ROAD – DUSK
The tower leans like a drunk against the sky, its stonework fractured, its battlements half-swallowed by creeping ivy and rot. A single raven circles overhead, silent.
The party slows.
Wind stirs the remnants of a camp—tattered canvas, a rusted cookpot, a child’s wooden toy half-buried in ash.
Clarion steps forward first, boots crunching over broken glass and bone.
CLARION: (softly) “Someone tried to make this a refuge.”
Silverleaf kneels beside the toy, fingers brushing its scorched edge. She doesn’t speak.
Felonious scans the perimeter, eyes narrowing at the scorch marks that climb the tower’s base—too precise for fire, too chaotic for siege.
FELONIOUS :“This wasn’t bandits. Something fed here.”
Fleetwood draws his blade—not for threat, but for ritual. He plants it in the earth, a silent gesture of respect.
FLEETWOOD: “Barovian refugees. They must’ve thought the tower would protect them.” (beat) “It didn’t.”
Greegan moves toward the entrance, where the door hangs crooked on one hinge. Inside, the stone walls are blackened. A message is scrawled in soot across the far wall— “HE COMES WITH THE MIST.”
Greegan stares at it, jaw clenched.
GREEGAN “Strahd?”
Felonious shakes his head slowly.
FELONIOUS: “Could be. Could be one of his pets.” (beat) “Or worse—something that doesn’t answer to him at all.”
Ireena lingers at the edge of the clearing, her eyes fixed on the tower’s broken silhouette. She doesn’t speak, but her hand tightens around the hilt of her dagger.
Clarion turns to the group.
CLARION: “We bury what we can. Say the rites. Then we move.”
Silverleaf finally stands, her voice low.
SILVERLEAF: “No graves. No names. Just echoes.”
The wind picks up.
INT. RUINED WATCHTOWER – DUSK GATHERING
The camera glides through the broken threshold, past moss-slicked stone and shattered beams. Shadows pool behind crumbling pillars—thick, unmoving, like secrets that forgot how to whisper.
Greegan steps over rubble, nudging aside a rusted banner rod. He sniffs the air near the hearth and recoils, face pinched.
GREEGAN (dry) “Smells like Mistamere. Only without the Bargleness.” (beat) “Thankfully.”
Felonious crouches near the fireplace, poking at a cracked kettle with a twig. The stew inside has curdled into something fungal. Plates lie nearby, crusted in mold—no older than a week.
Clarion trails her fingers across the wall, tracing faded carvings. She brushes away a line of dust— and beneath it, an ancient sigil glows faintly in the dying light.
She doesn’t speak. But her breath catches.
Silverleaf kneels beside a wolf corpse. Its fur is matted, bones jutting like ivory shards. Splintered arrows protrude from its flank—no signs of feeding, no signs of mercy.
SILVERLEAF (quietly) “Spears. Crossbows. This wasn’t hunger. It was defense.”
Outside, near the road, Clarion and Fleetwood kneel by shallow graves. Leaves scatter as they brush the stones—placed with care, but no names etched.
CLARION “A week? Maybe two?”
Fleetwood doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts toward the horizon, where dusk thickens like smoke.
FLEETWOOD “Just long enough to be forgotten.”
A gust slips through the cracked shutter above. The fire pit groans. Somewhere beyond the tower, a raven cries once—then falls silent.
The party exchanges glances. No words. Just the shared weight of knowing they’re not the first to pass through this place.
They turn.
And walk on.
The tower remains behind them— quiet, broken, listening.
EXT. OLD SVALICH ROAD – LATE AFTERNOON, NEARING DUSK
Background Music shifts: Lands of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The road stretches forward beneath a bruised sky. The trees that flank it seem to lean away— not from wind, but weariness. Even the forest is tired of watching.
The party rounds a bend— and stops.
In the center of the path stands a crude wooden table, flanked by two men in gleaming guard uniforms. Their tabards bear the crest of Vallaki. Their boots? Too clean for men who’ve seen mud, let alone monsters.
The man at the table raises a hand with theatrical flourish.
GUARD #1: (booming) “Halt! You approach the gates of Vallaki!” (He squints at the horizon, where dusk bleeds into mist.) “…Eventually.”
He gestures grandly to a clipboard and inkpot.
GUARD #2 (reading from a scroll, solemn) “By decree of the Burgomaster, all entrants must provide names, intentions, and declare any cursed objects, haunted livestock, or romantic entanglements with the undead.”
Fleetwood opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks around.
FLEETWOOD: “…Is this a checkpoint?”
GUARD #1: (beaming) “A pre-checkpoint, sir.” (He straightens, proud.) “New initiative. We screen the problematic types before they reach the gate. Cuts down on torch mobs and surprise poltergeists.”
Clarion blinks. Greegan pinches the bridge of his nose. Felonious visibly struggles not to laugh.
SILVERLEAF: (Deadpan) “We left our haunted sheep back at the watchtower. You’ll have to trust us.”
The guards exchange a glance. Then both nod, solemn.
GUARD #2: “That tracks.” (beat) “Carry on.”
They step aside with ceremony fit for a royal procession.
As the party passes—
Felonious leans toward Ireena, voice low.
FELONIOUS: “Was that… normal?”
IREENA: “In Barovia? That was practically welcoming.”
And with that, the gates of Vallaki draw ever closer.
EXT. TSER FALLS – EARLY EVENING – THE BRIDGE IN MIST
Background Music Shifts: Veteran of the Psychic Wars
The road crests a final rise— and the world unfolds.
Tser Falls thunder into the chasm below, white spray catching the last light like shattered glass. Mist churns at the cliff’s edge, rising in slow spirals— like ghosts escaping something deeper than death.
Stretching across the void: a narrow bridge. Rope weathered to sinew. Planks faded to gray. Each board shifts gently beneath the wind, groaning like it remembers every footstep— and every fall.
At the center of the bridge stands a figure.
Armored. Still. Watching.
A sword planted upright before them, hands resting on the hilt. The helm tilts slightly downward— not in threat, but judgment. The armor gleams in places, despite age. A tattered cloak flutters behind—red, or brown, stiffened by time and spray.
Silverleaf slows beside Fleetwood, voice barely audible over the roar.
SILVERLEAF: “We were being shadowed. Wolves. Three, maybe more. They peeled off when the checkpoint clowns showed up.” (She nods toward the bridge) “But this one stayed.”
Fleetwood squints toward the figure.
FLEETWOOD: “Too still for a traveler. Too deliberate for a scarecrow.”
Felonious eyes the bridge, skeptical.
FELONIOUS: “If it’s a toll, I hope they accept Vistani tokens and awkward silences. I’m rich in both.”
Ireena edges closer to Clarion, hand near the hilt of her shortsword— the one she rarely draws. Greegan’s already circling the ravine’s edge, scanning for a vantage point— or a way out.
The wind kicks up.
The figure does not move.
The bridge groans.
And the path forward leads straight through it.
EXT. TSER BRIDGE – EARLY EVENING – FOG DANCING AT THE CHASM’S EDGE
The roar of the falls thrums beneath the silence— a heartbeat carved into stone.
Fleetwood steps forward. Alone.
The figure at the center of the bridge does not stir. Hands rest on the hilt of a planted sword. Arms locked in place. Helm bowed just enough to shadow the face— but what Fleetwood sees is enough.
Flesh like waxed parchment. Eyes hollow, long dried. But the spine? Straight.
A knight’s spine.
Fleetwood slows. His posture shifts— not hostile. Not afraid. Just… known. Like two men nodding from opposite ends of a forgotten code.
Behind him, Clarion whispers.
CLARION: (soft) “It’s undead. But it’s not mindless.”
Felonious murmurs, dry as dust.
FELONIOUS “Perfect. A revenant with a job description.”
Then— the knight speaks.
The voice is brittle. Dry as autumn leaves. But clear. And ancient.
GUARDIAN “Speak your business… before you cross the old blood.”
The wind lifts the edge of his cloak— tattered, stiff with time.
Fleetwood steadies himself.
FLEETWOOD: “Travelers. Seeking passage west. To Vallaki.” (Beat.) “We mean no harm. Unless harm greets us first.”
The guardian lifts his head—just enough. Hollow eyes meet Fleetwood’s.
A silence.
Then—
GUARDIAN “You carry truth.” (A pause. A breath—if breath remains.) “And more than one of you carries grief.”
The sword groans as it lifts from the wood. Steel against plank. The sound of memory.
The guardian steps aside.
GUARDIAN “Walk in peace… but leave the fallen in peace as well.”
He stills again. As if he never moved.
Silverleaf exhales. Clarion clutches her holy symbol. Felonious mutters something about honorable ghosts.
And they cross— one step, then another— over the old blood.
End Credits play over: Veteran of the Psychic Wars