Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Lantern Settles A lantern sways above Vallaki’s gate—its flame steady, but dimmer now, as if bracing for what’s already inside. Boot prints converge in muddied cobblestone. A ribbon, once tied to a skeletal tree, now hangs limp from the hinge—frayed, faded, forgotten. A deck of cards lies scattered on the guardhouse floor, half-buried in ash. The screen exhales: VALLAKI, etched into a rusted plaque. The camera pans upward—walls tall, torches guttering, rooftops hunched like shoulders in the cold.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | The Town Breathes The gates creak wider. Inside: narrow streets, shuttered windows, festival banners limp in the wind. A child watches from behind a curtain. A raven lands on a rooftop, caws once, then vanishes. A hand—weathered, ringed, trembling—reaches into frame and turns over a card nailed to the gatepost: The Artifact. A charm of bone and braid dangles from the latch, spinning slowly—this time, with no wind at all.
🪦 0:21–0:33 | The Coffin and the Smile The camera glides past the stockyard, where Henrik’s coffin shop slouches against the mist. Inside, shadows stir. A sickle glints. Volenta Popofsky (Margot Robbie) twirls through the gloom in a tattered crimson gown, her porcelain mask dangling from one hand. She steps over a coffin lid like it’s a puddle, lips curled in a blood-slick grin. She pauses—looks directly at the camera. Winks. The lantern inside flickers once, then dies.
🚶♂️ 0:34–0:45 | The Travelers Within The wanderers move through the gate, marked not by arrival—but by intrusion:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) walks with his blade half-drawn, eyes scanning windows now, not treetops. Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) moves like a storm held in check, her shield catching torchlight like a warning. Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) watches the raven above, fingers brushing stone walls like reading a forgotten language. Felonious (Ben Whishaw) mutters incantations—quieter, sharper—the air around him twitching with restrained magic. Greegan (Matt Ryan) rolls bone dice on a windowsill. They clatter once. The Beast. The Broken One.
Starring:
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
With: Margot Robbie as Volenta Popofsky
🃏 0:46–0:58 | The Fortunes Shift Again The scattered cards rise again—this time inside the town. Five remain suspended: The Artifact. The Beast. The Innocent. The Broken One. The Darklord. As each is drawn, the town reacts—windows slam shut, bells toll once, a scream echoes from somewhere unseen. Behind the cards, Strahd’s silhouette flickers—reflected in a puddle, distorted by ripples. Volenta’s mask floats briefly across the frame—then vanishes.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note: The Gate Closes The party walks deeper into Vallaki. The gate creaks shut behind them. The final card lands in Clarion’s hand: The Innocent. The ravens above scatter. The fog curls into the shape of a noose—then dissipates. The road no longer leads forward. It coils inward.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN:
Background Music: Metal Tango
🎬 SCENE: “Before the Blade” — Exterior, Henrik’s Coffin Shop, Dusk
The mist thickens around the stockyard like breath held too long. The last light of day bleeds out behind the rooftops, casting everything in bruised gold and creeping gray. The coffin shop looms—wood sagging, windows shuttered, the coffin-shaped sign above the door swinging gently, as if nervous.
The party stands just outside the ruined threshold. The doorframe splintered. Blood darkens the cobblestones where Fleetwood fell moments ago. His cheek still glistens red, but he’s upright now—shield raised, sword steady, eyes locked on the figure inside.
Volenta Popofsky leans against the inner wall, framed by flickering lantern light and the jagged silhouettes of stacked coffins. Her crimson gown hangs in tatters, corset cinched too tight, skirts soaked in old blood. A cracked porcelain mask dangles from one hand. In the other, a rusted sickle twirls lazily, catching the light like a wink.
She watches Fleetwood with a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Fleetwood rolls his shoulder, adjusts his grip. The steel hums faintly—like it remembers. Behind him, Clarion mutters a prayer. Silverleaf’s fingers twitch with arcane readiness. Felonious watches Volenta like a scholar studying a storm. Greegan mutters something under his breath—half curse, half dare.
Inside, the vampire spawn stir. Coffin lids creak. Nails groan. The air grows heavy.
Volenta steps forward, skirts dragging across the floor like whispers.
VOLENTA (CONT'D): “Let’s see if your faith bleeds as pretty as your face.”
Fleetwood lowers into his stance. Calm. Centered. The mist curls around his boots. His voice is quiet. Final.
FLEETWOOD: “Then come.”
The lantern flickers once. Then dies.
Cut to:
💥 🎬 SCENE: “The Coffin Yard Waltz” — Exterior, Henrik’s Coffin Shop, Nightfall
The courtyard is slick with mud and the memory of rain. Coffin lids lie shattered. The mist curls like breath around the party’s boots. The vampire spawn surge.
But Fleetwood does not roar.
He inhales.
Exhales.
Moves.
His sword is not a weapon—it’s an answer. A rhythm. A vow.
He fights like breath made steel.
Each strike is precise. Each block echoes hours on foreign training grounds, where discipline was survival and form was faith. A pivot. A parry. A low sweep—one spawn stumbles, crashing into the coffin it clawed its way out of.
Fleetwood does not seek glory. He holds. He endures. He is the wall. The rhythm. The Knight of Karameikos.
And beside him—Clarion.
She moves in harmony, a second verse to his silent hymn. Her mace arcs into the gap he opens. Her shield catches claws meant for his throat. Where he steadies, she drives. Where he breaks a line, she sanctifies it with the weight of her god.
Together, they are a single blade with two edges.
🔥 Felonious stands apart, coat trailing like smoke, fingers alight.
FELONIOUS: “Invertebrate pyrotechnics. Classic.”
He murmurs the syllables. Fire bolts snap from his hand—each one a flare in the dark. For a heartbeat, the swarm is lit: pale faces, snarling mouths, hunger honed to daggers.
One spawn shrieks as flame chars its shoulder—then the flesh knits back.
Felonious frowns.
FELONIOUS (CONT'D): “Regeneration. Vile.’
🗡️ Greegan ducks behind a toppled barrel, dagger flashing low.
It sails true—into a spawn’s throat. The creature falters… then growls, yanks the blade free with contempt.
GREEGAN: “Well, that was disappointing.”
He draws another.
GREEGAN (CONT'D): “Can’t stab what won’t stay dead.”
🌿 Silverleaf draws both blades.
SILVERLEAF Alu’náthil.
The Elvish command ignites the steel. Flames crawl along etched metal. Her outline sharpens—like the edges of her weapons. She moves like wind through branches: cutting, turning, parrying with flickering precision.
A spawn lunges—she slides beneath it, her blade igniting its cloak in a trail of fire.
But still—they do not advance.
They hold.
Backed into a yard of broken stone and blood-slick mud, the party holds like a dam before a flood. The spawn keep coming—fast, feral, endless.
And above it all—
💃 Volenta Popofsky.
She spins atop a barrel, skirts torn, sickle twirling. Her laughter is a melody of knives.
VOLENTA : “Look at you all—so brave. So pretty when you break.”
She claps as blood flies. Her eyes shine like rubies drowned in wine.
VOLENTA (CONT'D): “Darling Strahd will be so pleased. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe I’ll rip your hearts out myself and keep them in jars like souvenirs.”
The line holds. But only just.
And as the sky darkens, Volenta’s laughter carries across the courtyard—
Like a music box winding down.
Slow. Sharp. And beautifully broken.
🎬 SCENE: “Sanctified Inferno” — Exterior, Henrik’s Coffin Shop Courtyard, Dusk
The yard is chaos—coffin lids shattered, earth churned to sludge, blood slicking the cobblestones like varnish. Smoke curls from broken timbers. The spawn swarm, feral and endless.
But through the storm, one figure rises—
Clarion.
She steps forward, shield raised, mace steady. A claw slashes—she does not flinch. Another spawn leaps—she lifts her hand.
🔆 BOOM.
A shockwave of radiant light erupts from her chest, centered on the sunburst symbol of Chardastes. The air hums. Mist ignites into steam. The courtyard glows like dawn breaking through a battlefield.
Spawn screech and recoil. Flesh bubbles. Eyes melt. Bone crumbles.
Three disintegrate mid-scream, reduced to ash and memory.
Clarion stands firm, eyes burning—not with rage, not hate—
With mercy sharpened to steel.
CLARION: “You don’t belong here.”
🔥 Fleetwood is already moving.
He doesn’t flinch at the light—he moves with it. A spawn lunges—his blade meets it mid-charge. Another flanks—he pivots, shoulder-smashing it into the burning fence. Sparks fly. The rhythm holds.
Every motion is deliberate. Balanced. Beautiful.
Then—
💥 Volenta strikes.
She twirls mid-lunge, sickle hissing as it tears across Fleetwood’s armor. Metal groans. The pauldron splits. Sparks scatter.
Fleetwood doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t stumble.
The armor catches most. His discipline catches the rest.
He shoves her off with a grunt, blood blooming beneath the steel—but not enough to slow him.
FLEETWOOD: “Nice trick. My turn.”
✨ Felonious doesn’t blink. Doesn’t warn. Just acts.
A whisper. A twist of fingers.
🔥 FIREBALL.
It rockets overhead—
💥💥💥 CRRAK-BOOM!!
Volenta is flung backward, dress alight, laughter echoing even as she rolls through the embers. Behind her, the coffin shop erupts—timbers ignite, glass shatters, smoke billows like a scream.
VOLENTA: “Ohhh yes! Can bones still bless us, I wonder— if they’re burned to cinders?!”
Background music shifts: K.Flay - Blood In The Cut (Warning: NSFW lyrics)
She throws her head back and cackles, fire dancing in her eyes like twin moons of madness.
The spawn falter. Just for a beat.
Clarion readies her symbol again.
Fleetwood steps between her and Volenta.
Felonious watches the fire, calculating how long before the roof collapses.
Silverleaf whispers another command—her blades roar to life.
Greegan mutters:
GREEGAN: “Gods help us if we missed the bones.”
The line holds.
But the shop is now a furnace.
And Volenta?
She’s dancing in the fire like she was born in it.
🎬 SCENE: “The Line Doesn’t Break” — Courtyard Inferno, Henrik’s Coffin Shop
Smoke coils through the ruined doorway, mixing with ash and the stench of ancient death. The coffin shop groans behind them—rafters aflame, glass shattering, walls trembling with every burst of heat. Vampire spawn close in from all angles, pale and clawed, shrieking through the firelight.
Fleetwood lifts his sword high, voice iron-clad:
“All together!”
For a brief heartbeat—they align.
🛡️ Fleetwood surges forward, sword flashing. He doesn’t lash out wildly; every strike is a parry, a riposte, a reposition—each motion buying ground, buying time.
✝️ Clarion plants herself beside him, holy symbol blazing in her palm, voice rising in defiance:
“Chardastes, grant them light!”
Another radiant flare bursts out—spawn recoil, but do not fall. Their regeneration already knitting wounds closed as the sacred light fades.
🔥 Felonious throws sparks and fire, bolts streaking past Fleetwood’s shoulder to sear into undead flesh. One spawn staggers, half its face scorched—but snarls and charges anyway.
🗡️ Silverleaf slides like a shadow, blades swirling in fire-kissed arcs. For every strike she lands, two more claws reach for her. She spins away—barely.
🎯 Greegan hurls another dagger, this time tipped in holy water—it sizzles, drawing a scream. But no kill.
“I’m making them mad,” he grunts, “that count for anything?”
The tide is not turned.
But it is slowed.
The vampire spawn don’t break—but they stagger. The party doesn’t advance—but they hold. Feet dig into the scorched earth. Eyes blaze through smoke. They are the line between hell and the bones that could save a city.
💃 Volenta watches from the eaves, singed and ecstatic.
“Ohhhh, you’re so together! It’s just gorgeous!”
“When you fall, it’ll be a chorus.”
She lifts her sickle again. Behind her, more coffins blaze, and from deeper in the smoke—
thumping.
Scraping.
Another spawn… trying to push the lid.
The shop is a pyre. The line is cracking.
And dawn is still so far away.
🎬 SCENE: “False Dawn” — Exterior, Henrik’s Coffin Shop Courtyard, Ablaze
The courtyard is a furnace now—coffin lids splintered, blood steaming in the dust, fire licking the edges of the broken shop. Vampire spawn press from all sides, snarling and relentless. They are no longer corpses. They are fury given form.
The party’s line begins to buckle. Exhaustion creeps in like rot beneath armor.
Fleetwood’s blade flickers—gore and flame dancing along its edge. His voice cuts through the chaos like a command carved in stone.
FLEETWOOD: “Fight harder! The dawn isn’t coming to save us!”
The spawn laugh—wet, guttural, cruel.
Volenta twirls her sickle beside the blaze, skirts trailing smoke, eyes gleaming like wine-stained rubies. She pirouettes atop a shattered barrel, a ballerina with a butcher’s tool.
And then—
Felonious chuckles.
Not softly. Not kindly.
FELONIOUS: “Oh… yes it is.”
🔥 He raises both hands. Light pulses along his veins—wildfire in a library. His voice is quiet. Precise.
FELONIOUS (CONT'D) : “Lux ardet.”
💥 SEARING LIGHT.
A beam of pure radiance tears from his palms—not gold, not yellow, but white. The kind of white that doesn’t burn flesh—it burns sin.
It cuts through the spawn like a lance hurled by a forgotten sun.
One disintegrates before it can scream.
Another melts into a puddle of curses and memory.
Two more stagger, burst—shadows scorched into the cobblestones.
The light punches through the smoke, splitting fire from fog.
And when the brilliance fades—
Volenta still stands.
Her gown is aflame at the hem. Her cheek is blackened, blistered porcelain peeling to reveal fang and fury. Smoke curls from her scalp.
But she’s laughing.
VOLENTA: “Oooh, I like the sparkly one. Can I keep you?”
She twirls her sickle, dragging the blade across her own shoulder with a hiss of delight. Blood sizzles. Smoke rises. She doesn’t flinch.
She’s not dead.
She’s inspired.
She turns to Fleetwood, smile wide, voice syruped with madness.
VOLENTA (CONT'D) No dawn coming to save you, sugar. But I came. And isn’t that better?
The fire roars.
The spawn are ashes.
But Volenta remains.
🎬 SCENE: “The Flames We Leave Behind” — Henrik’s Coffin Shop, Near Collapse
The world crackles and groans. The coffin shop is an inferno—walls sagging inward, roof beams collapsing in choking smoke and sparks. The air sings with the high-pitched whine of ruin. And yet—
—
🛡️ Fleetwood stands first, bleeding and burnt, shield slung over a scorched shoulder. The firelight limns his silhouette in gold and ash.
✝️ Clarion pulls herself up beside him, coughing, singed but steady, her symbol of Chardastes hanging like a promise still kept.
🔥 Felonious stumbles from the smoke, robes scorched at the hem, eyes wild with arcane light and disbelief.
🗡️ Silverleaf limps after him, one leg bloodied, one blade still glowing—her other clenched tight in a fist blackened with soot.
💀 But Greegan is not with them.
He’s inside.
—
🎬 CUT TO: Interior, Coffin Shop — Inferno
Smoke coils like serpents. Flames lick the rafters. Coffins burn. The floor groans beneath every step.
Greegan crashes through the wreckage, coat torn open, eyes stinging, breath ragged. He dives past a falling beam, rolls through ash, claws his way toward the back wall—
There. Beneath a half-collapsed shelf. A hidden compartment. A glint of bone.
He yanks the bundle free—charred linen, scorched wood, sacred remains wrapped in desperation.
The bones of Saint Andral.
He clutches them to his chest, coughing hard, eyes watering.
GREEGAN: “Got you, you stubborn little miracle.”
The ceiling groans. A coffin lid explodes behind him. He doesn’t look back.
He runs.
—
🎬 CUT TO: Courtyard — Exterior
Background Music shifts: Alice In Chains - Them Bones
The party holds the line. Volenta dances through flame, sickle spinning, laughter rising like smoke.
Fleetwood blocks a lunge. Clarion blasts radiant light. Felonious hurls fire. Silverleaf cuts through the last spawn with a cry of fury and pain.
And then—
💀 Greegan bursts from the doorway, bones clutched tight, coat trailing smoke.
He stumbles, falls to one knee, then rises again.
They are alive. Shattered. Bruised. But still standing.
—
Volenta halts. Her porcelain skin cracked and blackened. Her eyes still burn.
She sees Greegan. Sees the bones. Sees the future.
The rite will be completed. The church will be hallowed again. Strahd will not walk there.
Her grin falters. Just a flicker.
VOLENTA: “Ohhh… bother.”
She cocks her head. And then—
💃 She curtsies.
VOLENTA (CONT'D): “Well played, little heroes.”
And then—
She skips.
Through the flame. Heels tapping in perfect rhythm. Fire licking at her hem. She vanishes into the burning house like it’s her ballroom.
Her laugh hangs in the rafters even as they fall.
—
Felonious blinks.
FELONIOUS: “Did we… win?”
Fleetwood grunts.
FLEETWOOD: “We’re alive. The bones are here. That’s all that matters.”
—
🔥 The fire howls.
The party turns toward the smoke-choked exit.
They’ve survived hell.
Now they have to walk out of it.
🎬 SCENE: “Smoke and Silence” — Alley Outside the Coffin Shop, Moments After the Battle
The fire behind them still roars, casting long, flickering shadows against Vallaki’s crooked walls. Smoke rolls across the cobbles, thick with the scent of scorched blood and splintered wood. The battle is over. But the silence that follows is not peace—it’s the breath before the next scream.
Felonious brushes cinders from his sleeves. The edges of his robes still glow faintly, like embers refusing to die.
FELONIOUS: “Oh, I do hope there are more of them.”
He laughs—shaky, brittle. Half bravado. Half hysteria.
Fleetwood doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.
FLEETWOOD: “How many more do you think there are?”
He doesn’t wait for the answer.
FLEETWOOD (CONT'D): “And are they all like that one?”
Felonious exhales. His lips twitch like he might smirk again—but the sharpness fades.
FELONIOUS: “No. None of them are like that one.”
The words hang. Heavy. Final.
FELONIOUS (CONT'D): “Some are worse.”
Around them:
✝️ Clarion sinks to one knee, whispering a prayer over her wounds and over the bundle in Greegan’s arms.
🗡️ Silverleaf leans against the wall, testing her leg. Her breath is a hiss—pain and satisfaction braided together.
💀 Greegan crouches nearby, coat still smoldering, bones wrapped tight like fragile truth. He doesn’t speak. He just holds them.
🛡️ Fleetwood stares back toward the wreckage, face unreadable.
FLEETWOOD : “Then we’d best get these bones home.”
—
🎬 SCENE: “Ashes Behind, Sanctuary Ahead” — Streets of Vallaki, Late Evening
The fire behind them paints the rooftops in red. Smoke trails like ghosts. But the bones of Saint Andral are wrapped tight—clutched like a blessing earned in blood.
The party moves quickly through Vallaki’s crooked alleys. Shadows press close. Silence walks beside them.
And then—banter. Because sometimes, it’s the only armor left.
🗡️ Greegan sidles up beside Silverleaf, mouth twitching.
GREEGAN: “So. That little routine back there—Volenta’s obsession with His Shadowiness. You catch the way she gushed? Positively dripping with devotion.”
He leans in, mock-serious.
GREEGAN (CONT'D): “What’s your read, Sil? Think she’s competition?”
🌿 Silverleaf doesn’t turn. Her swords are sheathed. Her limp is subtle. Her voice is not.
SILVERLEAF: “Her devotion felt… pale.”
She glances sideways. Firelight glints in her eyes.
SILVERLEAF (CONT'D): “The way fungus clings to a dying tree.”
Greegan smirks.
GREEGAN: “Now that’s poetry.”
🔆 Clarion drifts closer to Fleetwood, who walks at the front. Jaw tight. One hand curled over the scorched break in his armor. He hasn’t looked back once.
She reaches up. Rests a hand on his shoulder—not heavy. Just present.
CLARION: “You worry - about what your training made you. Back there… what you did—it wasn’t monstrous.” (She waits. Then) “It was beautiful.”
Fleetwood’s eyes flick toward her. Then forward again.
He doesn’t reply.
But he does breathe easier.
Just once.
Ahead, the doors of St. Andral’s rise—wounded, but whole.
And perhaps—just perhaps—the bones are not the only thing returning.
🎬 SCENE: “Return from the Fire” — Interior, St. Andral’s Church, Midnight Mass Without Music
Background Music shifts: St. Andral's Church (Hopeful) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Choir & Organ | Loop
The battered doors groan open. Smoke trails in behind them like a memory that refuses to fade. The sanctuary is dry, still. Candles flicker—not from wind, but from presence.
A hush settles. Sacred. Heavy. Waiting.
In the pews—
Ireena.
She rises slowly. Not startled. Not relieved. Just… afraid to hope.
Her eyes sweep over the group:
🛡️ Fleetwood, armor torn, blood dried at his collarbone. His posture rigid, his gaze unreadable.
✝️ Clarion, soot-smudged but radiant, her holy symbol clutched like a promise kept.
🔥 Felonious, robes singed, arcane heat still crackling faintly along his fingertips.
🗡️ Silverleaf, favoring one leg, her expression a quiet ledger of pain and satisfaction.
💀 Greegan, limping, coat scorched, the bones of Saint Andral bundled in his arms like a newborn made of prophecy.
Ireena freezes.
Her breath catches. Her eyes—already rimmed red—shine with something raw.
Not fear. Not relief.
Recognition.
She steps forward.
Not to anyone. Not yet.
She walks to the center of them, hands trembling. Stops before the bones.
She looks at them. Then at Clarion. Then at Fleetwood.
IREENA: “You brought them back.”
It’s not a question.
Then—
She embraces Clarion.
Tight. Wordless. Fierce.
The kind of embrace that says: You fought for something that can’t thank you—but I will.
Only then does she turn to the others.
Her eyes soften.
And just for a moment—
She smiles.
FADE OUT.
End credits play over: Alice In Chains - Them Bones