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 tinged with violet smoke. Boot prints converge in muddied cobblestone, some smeared with ash, others with wine. 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 soot. The screen exhales: VALLAKI, etched into a rusted plaque, now streaked with blood and wax. The camera pans upward—walls tall, torches guttering, rooftops hunched like shoulders bracing for a whisper.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | The Town Breathes The gates creak wider. Inside: narrow streets, shuttered windows, festival banners limp and scorched. A child watches from behind a curtain, eyes wide. A raven lands on a rooftop, caws once, then vanishes into smoke. A hand—weathered, ringed, trembling—reaches into frame and turns over a card nailed to the gatepost: The Seer. 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 Ashes The camera glides past the stockyard. Henrik’s coffin shop slouches against the mist—then erupts. Inside: firelight dances across shattered wood. Volenta Popofsky (Margot Robbie) twirls through the blaze 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. Behind her, bones tumble from a scorched crate.
🚶♂️ 0:34–0:45 | The Travelers Within The wanderers move through the gate, marked not by arrival—but by consequence:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) walks with his blade half-drawn, soot streaking his armor, eyes scanning windows now, not treetops.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) moves like a storm held in check, her mace catching torchlight like a warning.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) watches the raven above, fingers brushing stone walls like reading a forgotten language, her swords still smoldering.
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 Seer. The Broken One. He pockets the bones. Behind him, the coffin shop burns.
🎭 Starring: Richard Armitage as Fleetwood Gwendoline Christie as Clarion Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf Ben Whishaw as Felonious Matt Ryan as Greegan 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 Seer. 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. A Vistani wagon rolls into view, wheels creaking, curtains drawn.
🎵 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. From somewhere unseen, a voice hums a lullaby in Vistani tongue.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
🎬 SCENE: “The Truth Laid Bare” — St. Andral’s Church, Vestry, Night
Background Music: St. Andral’s Church (Hopeful) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Choir & Organ | Loop
The flames are behind them now, but the heat clings to Fleetwood’s voice like smoke to cloth. The bones rest on the altar, wrapped in soot-stained linen. Clarion tends to Silverleaf’s wound in silence, her hands steady, her eyes elsewhere. Felonious leans against the window, watching for movement—not smoke this time, but wheels. Greegan sits cross-legged on the floor, turning a splinter of coffin wood over in his fingers like a coin he doesn’t trust.
Father Lucian closes the vestry door behind them. His brow is furrowed—not just with relief, but with something older. Something that’s been waiting.
LUCIAN: “You found them?”
Fleetwood doesn’t answer right away. He steps forward, unbuckling the last strap of his ruined pauldron. It clatters to the floor like a verdict.
FLEETWOOD: “The coffin shop was crawling with vampires.”
CLARION: “Spawn. Some feral. Some worse.”
FLEETWOOD: “One of them… a woman. Pale as porcelain and twice as cracked.”
Lucian goes still. His knuckles whiten on the chair back.
LUCIAN: “Volenta Popofsky. One of Strahd’s consorts.”
Fleetwood nods grimly.
FLEETWOOD: “She didn’t die. But she left. For now.”
He glances toward the others, then back to Lucian.
FLEETWOOD: “Your groundskeeper and the coffin maker? Gone. Milivoj might’ve tipped the first domino, but someone else helped him push it.”
Clarion speaks softly, but her words land like iron.
CLARION: “Someone moved coffins. Created hiding places. Let them in. Kept them fed.”
Lucian sinks into the chair. His eyes flicker to the bones, then to Ireena—who sits quietly in the corner, her red hair catching candlelight like flame.
LUCIAN: “Then we were blind when the door was already open.
Felonious doesn’t look away from the window.
FELONIOUS: “And nearly buried before we found the shovel.”
Greegan speaks without looking up, still turning the splinter.
GREEGAN: “The Vistani were seen near the stockyard. Before the fire. After the fire. Always just before something breaks.”
Lucian’s gaze sharpens.
LUCIAN: “You think they’re involved?”
GREEGAN: “I think they’re watching. And I think someone’s feeding them breadcrumbs.”
Silverleaf shifts, wincing slightly.
SILVERLEAF: “Could they know about the bones. Maybe not where—but what they meant?”
Lucian’s eyes drift to the altar. The bones. The cloth. The silence.
LUCIAN: “Then we hold the line. Even if it’s drawn in ash.”
Background Music: Ireena Kolyana (Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Theme | Loop
Interior. The sanctuary is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of half-melted candles. The bones of St. Andral rest beneath the altar, wrapped in cloth, sanctified but still fragile. The party stands near the nave, cloaked and ready. Outside, the wind howls against the stained glass.
CLARION: (to Ireena, gently) “You’ll be safe here. The hallow holds.”
IREENA: (nods, but doesn’t smile) “Safe isn’t the same as still.”
FLEETWOOD: “We’ll be back before the sun forgets us.”
Felonious adjusts his cloak, eyes already scanning the shadows beyond the door. Silverleaf lingers a moment longer, her gaze flicking between Ireena and the altar.
SILVERLEAF: “If anything shifts—anything—you light the lantern. No hesitation.”
Ireena nods again. Clarion clasps her shoulder. Then the party turns, boots echoing against stone as they exit through the side door toward the Blue Water Inn.
But Greegan doesn’t move.
🎬 SCENE: “The Watcher in the Sanctuary” — St. Andral’s Church, Night
Interior. The sanctuary is quiet now. The party’s footsteps echo out the door, then fade. The vestry closes with a soft thud.
Only two remain.
Greegan lingers near the last pew, half in shadow. Smoke clings to his coat. His posture is loose, but not relaxed—like someone waiting for a verdict.
Ireena stands near the front, arms folded, eyes tracing the stained glass. Her focus drifts.
IREENA: “You didn’t go with them.”
Greegan shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching with something like a smile.
GREEGAN: “Figured the inn’s probably loud. Full of dreams I’d rather not borrow. Thought you might want company.”
She turns. Her smile is small, but it lands.
GREEGAN: “Didn’t like the idea of you here. Alone.”
She steps closer. The candlelight catches her eyes—flickering, not warm.
IREENA: “I know, you know.”
He blinks, caught off guard.
GREEGAN: “Know what?”
IREENA: “The sunflower clip my father carved for me when I was small. You slipped it into my satchel like it wouldn’t be noticed.”
Her voice isn’t accusing. It’s remembering.
IREENA: “And I heard you. Talking with Felonious. The night we left the crossroads. You didn’t say it outright, but… I’m not blind.”
Greegan’s smirk fades. What’s left is quieter.
GREEGAN: “I’m not the poetry type. Not great with declarations. Or timing.”
She sits beside him on the pew’s edge. Her hands fold in her lap.
IREENA: “I know what it meant. It mattered.” (A beat) “But I don’t know what I want, Greegan.”
He nods. Doesn’t push.
IREENA: “There’s something strange inside me. Like a ghost of a shadow. A pull. Not away from you—but toward something.”
She touches her neck, absentminded.
IREENA: “Maybe it’s destiny. Or memory. Maybe something Strahd took. Or left behind.” (A pause) “And then there’s him.”
Her voice hardens.
IREENA: “He doesn’t own me. But he says he remembers me. And I don’t remember myself.”
Greegan watches her. His expression unreadable. His hands steady.
GREEGAN: “Then we keep walking. Until you find the light that’s yours. And if you want me at your side ‘til then—” (he shrugs) “I’m not running.”
She smiles.
Not because she’s in love.
Not yet.
But because someone is still choosing her—without needing to claim her.
And in the ruins of a sanctuary, between old bones and buried truths, that might be enough.
🎬 SCENE: “Rest Between Storms” — The Blue Water Inn, Upper Floor, Midnight
Background Music: Johnny Cash - Hurt
Interior. The inn exhales in its sleep—timbers creaking, wind threading through the eaves. The warmth here is modest: fire-smoke, cider, and feather beds. But after fire and blood, it feels like sanctuary carved from memory.
Silverleaf sits on the edge of a narrow bed, boot off, pant leg rolled to the knee. The claw mark is angry, but healing.
Clarion kneels beside her, voice low, fingertips glowing with soft light.
CLARION: “Hold still.”
She presses her hand to the wound. Light pulses—golden, gentle. Like sunrise seen through water. The blood fades. The skin knits. Only a faint pink shadow remains.
CLARION: “Better.”
Silverleaf exhales.
SILVERLEAF: “You always do that.”
CLARION: “Do what?”
SILVERLEAF: “Touch like you’re healing something bigger than the wound.”
Clarion smiles, faintly.
CLARION: “Maybe I am.”
Across the room, Felonious mutters something about threadbare linen and metaphysical exhaustion. The door creaks open, closes. His candle snuffs out not long after.
⏳ And then it’s just the two of them.
Fleetwood leans against the far window, tunic half-unlaced, ash streaking his collar. His shield rests beside him, drying. The moon casts a pale glow across the scar on his jaw. He doesn’t speak.
Clarion sits across from him. Quiet. Watching.
Not like a healer assessing a wound. Not like a cleric weighing a soul. Like a friend deciding how close silence can get before it turns into loneliness.
CLARION: “I meant what I said. Back at the church.”
Fleetwood doesn’t move.
CLARION: “That wasn’t a monster I saw fighting beside me. That was the man who held the line.”
A beat. Then:
FLEETWOOD: “You didn’t see what I felt.”
CLARION: “Maybe not. But I saw what you chose to do with it. That matters more.”
He looks at her. Just for a moment. And the fire in his eyes—banked but not gone—softens.
🎬 SCENE: “The Pull of Strange Moons” — The Blue Water Inn, Upper Floor Window, Late Night
The room is dim. The hearth has burned down to a whisper. Outside, Barovia breathes in silver and fog.
Fleetwood stands at the window, arms crossed. His voice is soft, like he’s afraid of waking something.
FLEETWOOD: “Did you notice how fast the moon turns full here?”
His eyes don’t leave the sky. A perfect sphere—too perfect. Cold. Close.
Clarion joins him, arms folded. Her brow furrows.
CLARION: “I did.”.
She steps closer. The mist outside gleams like bone.
CLARION: “The last full moon was… four nights ago. Wasn’t it?”
They stand in silence. The inn breathes around them—groaning wood, settling heat, the distant flap of a raven’s wings.
Something in this land refuses to follow the heavens’ rhythm. Cycles move faster. Hunger grows quicker. And nothing—not even time—feels trustworthy.
Fleetwood’s jaw tightens.
FLEETWOOD: “Maybe the moon’s just trying to catch up to everything else that wants to kill us.”
Clarion doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t deny it either.
🎬 SCENE: “A Blade’s Length From Home” — Blue Water Inn, Late Night
Interior. The inn is nearly silent. Downstairs, the fire has gone to embers. Upstairs, sleep takes most of the party—uneasily, with bruised bones and heavier dreams. But not all rest in Barovia is sleep.
🌿 Silverleaf sits cross-legged on the mattress, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. Her trance is deep but not detached—like a blade resting in its sheath, aware of every vibration. One hand rests lightly on the hilt of the dagger beneath her pillow. The wound on her leg pulses faintly, a memory of Volenta’s touch.
Then—a creak. Soft. Precise.
Not the kind of sound floorboards make on their own.
Her eyes open fully. No startle. No gasp. Just motion—fluid and fast. She rises to a crouch, blade drawn, knees bent. The dagger gleams in the dark.
A figure in the doorway freezes.
GREEGAN: “Whoa whoa whoa—!”
He raises both hands, framed in firelight and mischief.
GREEGAN: “You always wake up this sweet?”
Silverleaf doesn’t lower the blade immediately. Her breath is steady, her gaze flicking from shadow to shadow behind him.
SILVERLEAF: “You have three seconds to say something clever.”
Greegan grins.
GREEGAN: “I’m happy to see you too?”
A beat. Then the tension softens. She sheathes the blade and sinks back to the edge of the mattress.
SILVERLEAF: “You’re lucky I was deep in memory.”
GREEGAN: “I’m lucky a lot.”
He steps inside, closing the door gently behind him. He doesn’t sit—just leans against the bedpost, watching her.
Not like a thief. Not like a man with a line prepared. Just someone who’s still here.
GREEGAN: “She didn’t break us. Volenta. Strahd. Whoever’s next. They keep sending monsters, and we keep walking away.”
Silverleaf glances at him, eyebrow raised.
SILVERLEAF: “You came this close to walking into my dagger.”
GREEGAN: “Yeah.”
He scratches the back of his neck.
GREEGAN: “But for a second there, it was almost worth it.”
She doesn’t smile. Not quite. But the corner of her mouth shifts—like a blade catching light.
🎬 SCENE: “The Light Returns” — St. Andral’s Church, Dawn
Background Music Shifts: Kyrie - Mr. Mister | Lyrics | 1985
Exterior. The sky over Vallaki is a bruised violet, the mist reluctant to lift. But the bells of St. Andral’s toll—softly, steadily—calling the faithful, or the desperate, to witness something Barovia hasn’t seen in years.
Hope.
🕊️ The Reconsecration Ceremony
Interior. The bones of Saint Andral lie upon the stone slab beneath the altar, wrapped in fresh linen, anointed with oil and wine. The sanctuary is dim, but expectant.
Father Lucian stands at the altar, robes pressed, voice trembling. He chants the ancient liturgy of the Morninglord. His words echo through cracked stained glass like sunlight through storm clouds.
Clarion kneels beside him, hands raised. Her voice joins his—not loud, not grand, but steady. A duet of faith and fire.
Fleetwood stands at the nave, sword grounded, shield polished, watching the doors like a sentinel.
Felonious leans against a pillar, arms crossed, muttering the occasional counter-chant in Celestial—just in case.
Silverleaf and Greegan linger near the back. Eyes on the windows. Blades and wit ready.
The final verse is spoken.
A golden light spills from the altar—not blinding, but warm. Like the first breath of spring after a long, cruel winter. The bones glow faintly. Then settle.
The hallow is restored.
Silence holds. Then—
🚪 The door creaks open.
Bildrath.
Yes, that Bildrath. The miser of Barovia. The man who once charged ten gold for a hammer and smiled while doing it.
He steps inside, hat in hand, eyes downcast. His coat is patched. His boots are muddy. And in his arms—
🌱 A bundle of soil.
Wrapped in burlap. Damp. Heavy.
He walks to the altar. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up. Just kneels—actually kneels—before the bones.
BILDRATH: “It’s from the garden. Behind the shop. My sister used to tend it. Before the mists took her.”
He sets the bundle down beside the bones.
BILDRATH: “Figured… if you’re bringing the light back, maybe it needs something to grow in.”
Clarion blinks. Felonious raises an eyebrow.
Greegan leans toward Silverleaf, voice low.
GREEGAN: “Did not have ‘Bildrath, Druid of Dirt’ on my bingo card.”
But the soil stays. And the light doesn’t reject it.
And for the first time in years, a single green shoot curls up from the burlap.
The camera holds. No music. Just breath. Just light.
🎬 SCENE: “Nameday” — Outside the Blue Water Inn, Dawn
Exterior. The first light of morning creeps over Vallaki’s rooftops, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. The bells of St. Andral’s toll once—low and solemn—as if marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
The party gathers outside the inn. Weary but upright. Smoke clings faintly to their cloaks like memory. Clarion adjusts the wrappings around the bones of Saint Andral, now safely returned. Silverleaf tests her leg, nods once. Felonious yawns into his sleeve, muttering about divine irony and threadbare hospitality.
CLARION: “We should search the rest of the town. There may be more nests.”
FLEETWOOD: “There are always more nests. But first—”
He reaches into his satchel. Pulls out the strange doll from Blinsky’s. Its stitched smile is crooked. Its head tilts.
FLEETWOOD: “We have a delivery to make.”
Greegan grins, adjusting his coat.
GREEGAN: “Ah yes. The nameday gift. Wouldn’t want to disappoint a Vistani child. They’re known to hold grudges.”
🎬 SCENE: “The Road East” — Mist-Laced Woods, Morning
The road to the Vistani camp winds east, through dew-heavy trees and along the banks of the River Ivlis. The morning is quiet—eerily so. But birds begin to sing again. Tentative. Thin.
The trees arch overhead like cathedral vaults. Horse tracks and wagon ruts mark the path. A raven watches from a crooked branch. Then takes flight—leading them forward.
🎬 SCENE: “The Camp Without Laughter” — Vistani Encampment, Morning Mist
Background Music shifts: Vistani Camp | D&D/TTRPG Ravenloft Curse of Strahd Ambience Music | 1 Hour | Copyright free
The camp comes into view. The vardos are still. Their bright paint dulled by soot and dew. The campfire is cold. Ashes scattered like forgotten stories.
No music. No laughter. No Arabelle.
Only watchers.
From behind wagons and tents, Vistani men emerge—half a dozen, maybe more. Curved blades glint in the morning light. Eyes hard as flint.
One steps forward. Deep red coat. Mud-caked boots. Voice low, sharp.
VISTANI MAN: “You walk into our camp with weapons and silence. Speak. What business do you have here?”
Fleetwood raises his hands slowly. Not in surrender. In caution.
FLEETWOOD : “We came to deliver a gift. For Arabelle. From Blinsky’s.”
He nods toward the doll. Its head lolls sideways.
The man’s eyes narrow.
VISTANI MAN: “Arabelle is not here.”
Another steps forward. Younger. Angrier.
YOUNGER VISTANI: “And Blinsky’s toys are not welcome.”
Clarion steps beside Fleetwood. Her voice calm. Steady.
CLARION: “We were told it was her nameday. We meant no offense.”
Felonious mutters under his breath.
FELONIOUS: “Well, this is festive.”
Silverleaf’s hand hovers near her blade. Greegan’s eyes scan the camp. Every wagon. Every shadow.
GREEGAN: “Where is she?”
No answer. Just a tightening grip on a blade.
VISTANI MAN: “You should leave. Now.”
The doll creaks in Fleetwood’s pack. Its stitched smile tilts further. And somewhere in the trees beyond the camp, a raven cries once—sharp and distant.
The camera holds. No music. Just breath. Just silence.
Exterior. The party stands at the edge of the Vistani camp. The air is heavy—smoke, dew, and something sour beneath it. No music plays. No children laugh. The bright colors of the vardos are faded, like memories left out in the rain.
Greegan steps forward, hands raised. His voice is smooth, but edged with urgency.
GREEGAN: “We’re not here to cause trouble. We came to deliver a gift for Arabelle from her granny. But something’s wrong. Just tell us what happened.”
A man with a red scarf steps out from the shadows. His scowl is carved deep.
RED-SCARF VISTANI: “Leave. Now.”
Another Vistani steps forward. Younger. His blade remains sheathed, but his fingers twitch near the hilt.
YOUNGER VISTANI: “This is not your business.”
Clarion’s voice cuts through the tension—calm, clear, resolute.
CLARION: “If something’s happened to Arabelle, we may be able to help. But not if you shut us out.”
A long pause. Then—
RED-SCARF VISTANI: “Come. But speak only when spoken to.”
🎬 SCENE: “Wounds and Whispers” — Vistani Encampment, Central Tent
Interior. The largest tent. The air reeks of wine, sweat, and something darker. The canvas walls flicker with morning light, but it doesn’t reach the corners.
Luvash sits on a low stool, leg wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. A wolf trap lies open nearby—its teeth slick with his blood. His shoulders are broad. His eyes red. His rage barely contained.
Arrigal stands beside him. Lean. Composed. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp as razors.
At the center post: Alexi. Shirtless. Bound. His back striped with fresh welts. He sways on his knees, barely conscious.
LUVASH: “He was supposed to watch her. Instead, he drank himself blind. When he woke—she was gone.”
He slams a wine bottle to the ground. It shatters.
LUVASH: “My daughter. Gone.”
Arrigal doesn’t speak. He watches the party. Unreadable.
Clarion steps forward. Her voice steady.
CLARION: “Let us help find her.”
Luvash glares. His pain is loud. His trust, brittle.
LUVASH: “And if you fail?”
Fleetwood answers. His voice is stone.
FLEETWOOD: “Then we’ll answer for it.”
Arrigal finally speaks. His words are quiet. Precise.
ARRIGAL: “Then you’d best start soon. Before someone else finds her first.”
CLARION: “May I help you first?”
Luvash scowls. But the pain is deep. He nods once, curt.
Clarion kneels. Her hand hovers over the wound. Light blooms—soft, golden. Like the first light of a long-lost dawn.
The torn flesh knits. The swelling fades. Luvash exhales sharply, blinking like he’s surprised to feel whole again.
LUVASH: “You didn’t have to.”
CLARION: “I did.”
Fleetwood steps forward. His voice is low. Steady.
FLEETWOOD : “Tell us what happened.”
Luvash leans back. Rubs his face. His voice is hoarse.
LUVASH: “Two days ago, I left my little Arabelle with my nephew. She was playing in the woods. I had to settle a dispute—nothing unusual.”
He gestures toward Alexei, who flinches.
LUVASH: “Instead of watching her, the fool drank himself blind. Says the wine came from Yan.”
Arrigal’s jaw tightens.
ARRIGAL: “Yan’s been with us for years. Never trusted him.”
LUVASH :”When Alexei woke—Arabelle was gone. Yan too.”
He grimaces. Hand brushing his leg.
LUVASH: “I led the search myself. Over a dozen of us. Even the Dusk Elves joined in. Didn’t get far. Wolf trap caught me. Had to crawl back.”
Clarion’s eyes narrow.
CLARION: “And the others?”
LUVASH: “Still searching. But Savid—one of the dusk elves—found something.” (He looks up. Voice low.) “Yan’s body. Decapitated. Blood everywhere. Near the Luna River.”
He reaches into a pouch. Pulls out a velvet bundle. Opens it.
A platinum signet ring. Cold. Heavy. The firelight catches its edges.
LUVASH: “Savid found it near the body. Dropped in the grass. I gave it to Kasimir. Thought he might know something. He doesn’t. Not yet.”
Felonious steps into the firelight, eyes narrowing.
FELONIOUS: “May we see the ring?”
Luvash hesitates. Then nods.
LUVASH: “If it helps bring her back.”
🎬 SCENE: “The Sigil in the Grass” — Luvash’s Tent, Moments Later
The tent dims. Morning light slants through canvas. The brazier flickers low. The party stands around Luvash. The tension still thick from Alexei’s confession.
Luvash unwraps the velvet pouch. Tips its contents into his palm.
A signet ring.
The camera lingers.
Platinum band. Tarnished edges. A hexagram etched into the face—two interlocking triangles. Around the points, arcane glyphs shimmer faintly. Each one a symbol of a different school of magic.
It hums. Quiet menace. Or memory.
Felonious leans in. Doesn’t touch.
FELONIOUS : ”That’s not a family crest. That’s a seal. Each glyph—abjuration, necromancy, illusion… Each a school of magic. I’ve seen similar configurations before. But not this one.”
He looks up at Luvash.
FELONIOUS: “Did Savid find anything else? Say anything about the sigil?”
LUVASH: “No. Just the ring. He gave it to Kasimir. Said it might mean something.”
FELONIOUS: “Then I need to speak with this Kasimir.”
Luvash gestures toward the edge of the camp.
LUVASH: “He’s with the Dusk Elves. Down the hill. Near the old stones. You’ll find him there—if he wants to be found.”
Outside, the mist begins to lift. And somewhere below the hill, Kasimir Velikov waits— with answers. Or more questions.
Fade to black
End credits play over: Elegy | Patrick Cassidy and Lisa Gerrard | Immortal Memory