🎭 Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
Melodic War Productions presents:
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Lantern Settles
A lantern sways above Vallaki’s gate—its flame steady, tinged with violet smoke. Boot prints converge in muddied cobblestone, some smeared with ash, others with wine. A child’s ribbon, once tied to a skeletal tree, now hangs limp from the hinge—frayed, faded, forgotten. A deck of Tarokka cards lies scattered on the guardhouse floor, half-buried in soot. The screen exhales: VALLAKI, etched into a rusted plaque, 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. Below it, a missing poster flutters: a Vistani girl, eyes bright, name smudged by rain. A charm of bone and braid dangles from the latch, spinning slowly—this time, with no wind at all.
🔥 0:21–0:33 | The Tower and the Storm
The camera glides past the stockyard—then cuts to the edge of Lake Baratok. A bolt of lightning cracks the sky. In its flash, Khazan’s tower looms—half-collapsed, ringed in arcane sigils. Inside: shattered mirrors, scorched tomes, and a circle of salt disturbed by bootprints.
Ezmerelda D’Avenir (Morena Baccarin) stands at the center, cloak billowing, rapier drawn. Her eyes flick toward the camera—calculating, defiant. She lifts a broken wand from the floor, inspects it, then tosses it aside. Behind her, a glyph pulses once—then fades.
The lantern inside flickers. The storm outside does not.
🚶♂️ 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 tower crackles.
🎭 Starring:
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
With:
Morena Baccarin as Ezmerelda D’Avenir
🃏 0:46–0:58 | The Fortunes Shift Again
The scattered cards rise again—this time inside the tower. Five remain suspended: The Seer. The Beast. The Innocent. The Broken One. The Darklord. As each is drawn, the tower reacts—sigils flare, mirrors crack, a scream echoes from somewhere unseen.
Behind the cards, Strahd’s silhouette flickers—reflected in a pool of rainwater, distorted by ripples.
Ezmerelda’s cloak sweeps across the frame—then vanishes.
A Vistani wagon rolls into view, wheels creaking, curtains drawn.
A child’s voice whispers from inside: “I remember the stars…”
🎵 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.
The screen fades to black.
One word lingers: “Missing.”
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
🎬 SCENE: “The Tower That Shouldn’t Stand” — Edge of Lake Baratok, Late Morning Mist
Background music: Ezmerelda | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Theme Music | Loop
EXT. CROSSROADS — BURNT CLEARING — DAY Fog clings low, curling around scorched vines and shattered blight limbs. The party moves slowly, boots crunching through ash and twisted stalks.
SILVERLEAF kneels, fingers brushing a splintered root. Her voice is quiet, precise. SILVERLEAF Twig blights, yes. But no runes. No sigils. No markers. (beat) Whoever made these knew how to vanish.
She stands, cloak flicking ash. SILVERLEAF Too clean.
FLEETWOOD scans the horizon, jaw tight. FLEETWOOD Then we find whoever left their calling card in thorns.
EXT. LAKE BARATOK — CLEARING — MOMENTS LATER The road curves upward through moss-draped hills, then breaks open.
Lake Baratok lies still—mirror-flat, black as ink.
And there it stands.
🏰 KHAZAN’S TOWER
Four stories of slate-gray stone, ringed in ivy and silence.
The upper floors sag.
Iron scaffolding braces one corner like a broken limb.
Bronze doors sealed tight, marked with a faded sigil: a blazing sun over an open eye—half-erased by time.
Six lightning rods crown the peak, skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.
The tower hums faintly. Waiting.
🎠 EZMERELDA’S VISTANI WAGON
Parked off the causeway, wheels sunk into moss.
Crimson and gold paint chipped at the edges.
A brass lantern sways, unlit.
The back panel hangs open: potions, silvered blades, stakes in leather loops.
The air smells of garlic, gunpowder... and ozone.
EXT. TOWER BASE — CONTINUOUS Mist swirls. Steel flashes.
EZMERELDA D’AVENIR—cloak torn, one eye bloodied—moves like a storm contained. Her silvered sword arcs in a tight parry, sparks flying from the glyphs etched into her vambrace.
Opposite her: BARGLE THE VILE, clad in forest-green velvet laced with black glyphs.
His grin splits wide.
His hand glows with sickly green fire.
The ground around him pulses with eldritch glyphs, breathing in time with his rage.
EZMERELDA (through gritted teeth) You shouldn’t have come here, Mortu-čar. This place was buried for a reason.
BARGLE And yet your friend Khazan left a key. (beat) Shame it won’t help him now.
He hurls a bolt of green flame. Ezmerelda twists— It scorches the tower wall, revealing runes that flicker, then fade.
INT. CHARACTER VISION — FLASH CUTS
Bargle’s face: Willem Dafoe twisted with delight, eyes glittering with schemes.
Ezmerelda: Morena Baccarin, bloodied but radiant, stance pure monster-hunter elegance.
EXT. TREE LINE — PARTY POV The group watches, tension coiled.
CLARION: (low) “Do we intervene?”
FELONIOUS : (colder) “Or see who bleeds first?”
Another spell begins to rise—
FLEETWOOD bursts from the trees, blade drawn.
FLEETWOOD: “Bargle.” (beat) “I might’ve known. You never could resist something half-buried and dangerous.”
He flicks a glance toward Ezmerelda.
FLEETWOOD: “And whoever she is—” (nods) “She’s fighting you. That makes her all right in my book.”
Ezmerelda pants, side-glancing.
EZMERELDA: “Well. You’re either late… or perfectly on time.”
Bargle twitches his wrist. Another spell coils in his palm.
BARGLE: “The more the merrier. Let’s see who’s still standing when the tower opens.”
The clearing holds its breath. The storm begins again.
🎬 SCENE: “Smoke Beneath the Tower” — Khazan’s Tower, After the Duel
EXT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — LAKE BARATOK — DAY The clearing is chaos—sigils flaring, steel clashing, magic crackling through the mist.
EZMERELDA D’AVENIR spins low, cloak torn, blood streaking her temple. Her silvered blade catches Bargle’s spell mid-flight, deflecting it into the tower wall—where ancient runes flare, then vanish.
BARGLE THE VILE grins, lips split, velvet robes scorched. He hurls another bolt—green fire twisting like a serpent.
FLEETWOOD intercepts, shield raised, blade flashing.
FLEETWOOD: ”You always did love theatrics, Bargle.”
BARGLE : “And you always lacked taste.”
Fleetwood lunges—steel meets spell. Sparks fly. Bargle staggers back, laughing.
Ezmerelda pivots, slashing Bargle’s shoulder. He snarls, eyes wild.
EZMERELDA: “You’re bleeding. That’s new.”
BARGLE: “I bleed for art.”
He raises both hands—sigils spiral around him.
FELONIOUS, watching from the treeline, stares—not at the spell—but at Ezmerelda. His voice is barely audible.
FELONIOUS: “By the Weave… she’s radiant.”
SILVERLEAF: (dry) “Radiant because she’s on fire…”
Felonious blinks, then mutters a counterspell—just in time to unravel Bargle’s glyph mid-cast.
CLARION charges in, mace raised —
BARGLE: (laughing) “Too slow.”
He vanishes in a fold of shimmering air—Dimension Door—leaving only scorch marks and the sour scent of failure.
AFTERMATH Ezmerelda lowers her blade, breathing hard. Blood slicks her temple, her coat frayed. SZOLDAR leans against a tree, one eye swollen shut, still grinning.
FLEETWOOD: (kicks at the smoldering grass) “And that weasel slips through our fingers again.”
FELONIOUS: (brushes ash from his sleeve, still dazed) “Like a particularly smug eel…”
CLARION: “He’ll slither out from under his rock again. But next time, we’ll be ready.”
Ezmerelda sheathes her sword, movements sharp despite the bruises.
EZMERELDA: “You have my thanks. Without you, I’d be an arcane smear on that wall.” (She glances toward the treeline, brow furrowed.) “But that skirmish won’t stay secret.”
SILVERLEAF: “You think Strahd saw?”
EZMERELDA: (curls lip) “I know he did. This tower was his once. Every time it stirs, it whispers to him.”
She yanks a satchel from beneath her wagon, slings it over her shoulder.
EZMERELDA: “If you’ve business here, finish it fast. And if you’re wise… leave before nightfall.”
She pauses, nods—guarded, but not cold.
EZMERELDA: “You fight well. And you’re not stupid. That puts you ahead of most of Barovia”.
She steps into her wagon. Metallic clicks. A hinge groans. Wheels creak into motion.
GREEGAN, seated nearby, grunts.
GREEGAN: “So that’s what a polite thank-you sounds like.”
FLEETWOOD: (Watching the road) “Remind me never to play cards with that one.”
🎬 SCENE: “Shadows That Settle” — Grounds of Khazan’s Tower
Background music shifts: Van Richten’s Tower | 1h Exploration Music | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | Loop
EXT. LAKE BARATOK — TOWER CLEARING — DAY
The path spills into a wide gravel basin, hemmed by twisted pine and the ink-black edge of Lake Baratok. Mist clings low, curling at the waterline like breath held too long. No boat. No bird. No breeze.
The air smells of stone and old storms.
KHAZAN’S TOWER looms at the far end—four stories of slate-gray ruin, leaning westward like it’s tired of standing.
Shattered statues lie half-buried in moss and mud.
A crumbling causeway juts from the mainland, cracked like a forgotten finger.
Bronze doors sealed tight, runes pulsing faintly beneath the tarnish.
The tower hums. Not loud. Not constant. But like something dreaming.
🗡️ SILVERLEAF moves wide, boots whispering over gravel. Her gaze flicks—sky to bush, wagon to water, tree to stone.
She stops beside a crooked pine. Frowns.
Tracks. A buck’s path. Leading toward the lake—then gone. Mid-step.
A stripped sapling nearby, lashed with red cord. Frayed. Charm missing.
She kneels in the mulch near the tower’s base. A bootprint. Half-filled with water. Wrong shape—too pointed at the toe, heel narrow.
She presses fingers into the mud. It resists. Slurps.
SILVERLEAF: (low) “Something’s watching. Maybe. But if they are… they’re better at hiding than I am at seeing.” (rises, brushing grit from her knee) “Nothing clean. But not quiet, either.”
⚔️ FLEETWOOD steps beside her, scanning the treeline. His voice is low, edged.
FLEETWOOD: “Something spooked the deer. And I don’t like the way this place breathes.”
🛡️ CLARION stands at the tower’s sealed doors. Her hand hovers near the runes—dim, but pulsing like coals under soot.
She doesn’t speak. She listens.
The clearing is still.
But the tower is not.
It hums.
Like it’s waiting.
For the right hand.
To turn the key.
🎬 SCENE: “Words Unspoken” — Khazan’s Tower, The Door Awakens
EXT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — LAKE BARATOK — DAY
The clearing holds its breath.
Weapons remain loose in hand—half-forgotten, half-remembered.
FELONIOUS stands before the great bronze door. His fingers hover just above the sigils.
The runes no longer shimmer at random. They pulse—softly, rhythmically—like breath beneath skin.
He closes his eyes.
FELONIOUS: “Khazan wasn’t subtle.” (beat) “But he was elegant.”
He touches the door.
The glyphs stir. Not violently. They spread outward like frost fracturing glass—revealing a second layer beneath the surface.
Older. Deeper. Personal.
Felonious doesn’t trace them with his hand. He traces them with memory.
FELONIOUS: “The first mark is arrival. The second is warding. The third…” (He pauses. Smiles.) “…is belonging.”
He lifts his hand. No force. Just grace.
FELONIOUS: “Vultro senvare.”
The glyphs flare—briefly, brilliantly—then fade.
A sound like stone inhaling cuts the silence.
The bronze door shudders.
No explosion. No trap. No backlash of arcane fire.
Just a soft, cold click.
And then—
The doors open inward.
INT. TOWER ENTRY — CONTINUOUS
A stairwell descends. Smooth black stone. Dust undisturbed for a century.
The air shifts.
It smells of forgotten spells. Of moonless water. Of memory.
SILVERLEAF: (exhales) “What did you say?”
FELONIOUS: (shrugs) “Nothing. Just told it I came to remember.”
The tower hums again.
Not with power. With recognition.
🎬 SCENE: “Into the Eye of the Tower” — Khazan’s Threshold
EXT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — LAKE BARATOK — DAY
The bronze doors groan open.
A sliver of darkness yawns behind them—cool, still, waiting.
A single mote of dust drifts through the breach, catching the light like a falling star. Then vanishes into shadow.
INT. TOWER ENTRY — CONTINUOUS
GREEGAN steps first.
His boot lands on smooth stone—uncracked, unnaturally preserved.
The moment he crosses the threshold, the sounds of wind and lake vanish. As if the air inside swallows sound.
He glances left. Right. Hand on dagger.
Nothing leaps. No glyph flares. No poison mist drops.
Just stillness.
GREEGAN: “Dead quiet.” (beat) “Could be worse.”
🎥 CAMERA PULLS BACK
The entry hall is round, two stories tall.
Walls carved in scrollwork—sunbursts and interlocking eyes. Some worn smooth. Others sharp enough to cut.
Stone arches rib the ceiling like the bones of a sea creature long dead.
To the left: a collapsed bookshelf. Tomes half-rotted, pages curled like dying leaves.
To the right: an iron statue of a robed figure. Leaning sideways. One hand raised in silent benediction.
At the far wall: a spiral staircase. Blackened iron. Fragments of amber inset like fossilized flame.
No dust on the stairs.
Something’s been here. Recently.
SILVERLEAF enters next. Eyes flicking—statue, staircase, shadows. Her blades remain sheathed. But not forgotten.
CLARION follows. Her gauntlet trails the wall. She pauses.
CLARION: “Warm.” (beat) “Too warm.”
FELONIOUS steps lightly. Already whispering syllables under breath. His gaze climbs the ceiling, tracing the runes.
FELONIOUS: “This place hasn’t been empty.” (beat) “Just quiet.”
Outside, the door sighs. Half-closed.
By wind. Or will.
Inside, the tower holds its breath.
And waits.
🎬 SCENE: “Whispers on Iron Steps” — Khazan’s Tower, The Stair of Deprival
INT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — SPIRAL STAIRCASE — CONTINUOUS
The staircase coils upward like a serpent frozen mid-slither, iron black as regret. Veins of amber glow faintly beneath each step—pulsing not with life, but with something that refuses to die.
GREEGAN slips ahead, boots whispering against metal. He moves like a shadow trained to outwit even magic.
GREEGAN: (murmuring) “Stairs look simple.” (beat) “Which means they’re not.”
He crouches low. Eyes narrow.
On the third and fourth steps—glyphs, etched so faintly they look like scars in the iron. Ancient script, lacquered by time.
GREEGAN (reading) “Deprive. Trials.” (beat, dry) “Lovely.”
🎲 He draws a thin steel needle from his bracer. Tests the seam.
The glyph flares faintly—like an eye opening. Not enough to strike. Enough to warn.
Greegan works quickly:
A whisper-light pry shifts the pressure plate.
A strip of leather wedges beneath the frame.
A single drop of oil distorts the rune’s geometry.
The glyph dims.
But not fully.
Instead, the magic coils—like a waking eye. Not armed. Not dormant. Watching.
From below, FELONIOUS peers up, voice hushed but edged with nerves.
FELONIOUS: “Did you disable it?”
GREEGAN rises, tucking the needle away.
GREEGAN: “No.” (beat, with a half-smirk) “But I taught it to be polite.”
He keeps climbing. No pause for praise.
Behind him, the others exchange glances.
SILVERLEAF’s hand drifts to her hilt. CLARION mutters a prayer under her breath. FELONIOUS lingers, eyes fixed on the dimmed glyph—half in awe, half in dread.
The stairway holds. The rune hums low.
But something above now knows.
They are coming.
🎬 SCENE: “The Echoing Middle” — Second Floor, Khazan’s Tower
INT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — SECOND FLOOR — CONTINUOUS
🎥 The camera glides behind the party as they ascend. Each step groans on the spiral stair, iron creaking like a warning. The faint amber glow beneath the steps fades as they rise, swallowed by shadow.
The chamber opens—circular, cavernous, a library gutted by time.
The ceiling sags, timber bones exposed. A cracked chandelier dangles from its chain, swaying gently in a breeze that wasn’t there a moment ago.
📸 CAMERA PAN — ROOM SURVEY
Bookshelves line the curved walls, collapsed inward. Half-rotted wood and broken spines of books lie in heaps, pages curled like brittle leaves.
A writing desk, overturned near a narrow window, drawers yanked open and emptied long ago. One leg charred. A quill embedded in a ceiling beam, frozen mid-tantrum.
A corner nest: blankets and rags, too clean, too recent. Candle stubs. A half-full waterskin. Dried fruit wrapped in linen. Someone has been here.
A brazier, rusted, sits at the center. Ashes inside—cold, but not long cold.
🕵️ GREEGAN crouches by the bedroll. His finger traces overlapping prints in the dust—some human, some… less certain.
GREEGAN: “Someone’s been here.” (beat) “Not long gone.”
CLARION steps closer, eyes narrowing.
CLARION: “Squatting… or watching?”
GREEGAN: “Hard to tell. Could be either.”
🎥 The camera lingers on the far wall.
A mirror hangs crookedly. Cracked, but clean.
It reflects the stairwell—just enough to show movement. But not the faces of those who stand before it.
The chamber feels hollowed, but not abandoned.
It remembers being used.
And it waits—expecting someone to return.
🎬 SCENE: “Ash and Memory” — Second Floor, Khazan’s Tower
The room is still—dust hanging midair like smoke from a long-cooled fire.
GREEGAN kneels by the bedding, fingers ghosting over the folds of cloth as if it might recoil. He begins to sift.
🧵 First, rags. A twist of blanket. A frayed patch of canvas.
Then—something catches. A lump hidden in the fabric.
He pulls it free:
A child’s bracelet, woven with faded thread and bright beads—red, blue, yellow, unevenly spaced. Tiny wooden charms dangle: a horse, a sun, a tree, a house, a mask.
Wrapped around it, as if to guard it, a silvered dagger—thin, balanced, etched with warding runes older than Barovia’s coin.
Nestled beside them, like a forgotten letter: a Tarokka card.
🕵️ The Hooded One. Its surface worn, smudged. An omen of secrets wrapped in faces.
Greegan straightens slowly, holding them in one hand.
GREEGAN: “This wasn’t lost.” (beat) “It was left.”
He moves to the brazier. Ashes curl with blackened parchment.
He lifts the first scrap—edges browned, half-burned.
🎪 An advertisement, flamboyant even in ruin: “Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders! Exotic beasts! Magical feats! Vanishing delights and the dancing tiger that defies death!”
The ink shimmers faintly—something between theatre and threat.
The second fragment is darker. More personal.
A journal page, scorched but legible:
“…the girl has prophetic talent. Far beyond her years. She’s not safe among her own—especially now. Strahd senses her value. I fear he may sense mine as well. I’ve placed her somewhere even the mists hesitate to follow…”
No signature. Only a phrase underlined at the bottom:
—R.V.R.
CLARION joins, peering over his shoulder.
CLARION: “You think he meant Arabelle?”
From the broken desk, FELONIOUS answers, voice low.
FELONIOUS: “If he did… and if Bargle found his way here…” (beat) “Then someone’s string is about to snap.”
Outside, thunder rumbles once—low, far, but moving closer.
🎬 SCENE: “The Signature That Lingers” — Second Floor, Khazan’s Tower
The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment in Greegan’s hands and the slow creak of the chandelier overhead. The half-burned journal page gleams faintly in the dim light, its ink curled but not yet faded.
Felonious steps closer, adjusting his spectacles as he peers over the rogue’s shoulder. His expression shifts—thoughtful, precise.
FELONIOUS: “That script…”
He plucks the paper gently from Greegan, turning it sideways, studying the way the letters arch and loop.
FELONIOUS: “The way the descenders curl. The ink pressure—too neat to be tavern scribbles, too erratic to be scribe-trained. I’ve seen this before.” (He taps the margin, where the scorch hasn’t reached.) “The journal on vampires. The one I found hidden behind the mirror in Kolyan Indirovich’s guestroom—back in Barovia. Wait, that paper on werewolves Greegan won, too. Same hand. Same obsession with dark lineage and prophetic blood. I’d swear by my ink-stained soul, it was his.”
He holds the current page up.
FELONIOUS: “R.V.R., Rudolph Van Richten. Gods know he signs like someone who never meant to leave a legacy—but always did.”
SILVERLEAF: (frowns) “So he’s the one hiding Arabelle?”
FELONIOUS: (small, ambiguous smile.) “Or trying to. And this—” (waves the bracelet and the dagger gently) — “is the memory he hoped no one would find.”
Outside, the wind rises across Lake Baratok like a breath drawn sharp.
Inside, the tower seems suddenly heavier, as if the name Van Richten carries weight in its very bones.
🎬 SCENE: “The Room the Tower Forgot” — Khazan’s Tower, Third Floor
INT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — THIRD FLOOR — CONTINUOUS
The spiral stair groans underfoot, each step a protest. The amber veins from below are gone now, swallowed by shadow. The air thickens—rot, mildew, and something older than both.
🎥 The camera rises with the party as the third floor opens into view:
The ceiling has partially collapsed, exposing beams and a patch of gray sky. Moss clings to the inner wall, fed by rain that dripped through storms long past.
A wooden cradle sits in the corner, split down the center. One side rocks gently—not from wind, but memory. A dust-choked rattle carved like a sunburst lies nearby.
Against the far wall, a portrait lies face-down, frame warped by moisture. Lifted slightly, it reveals a woman’s silhouette beside a man robed in gold. Their faces are blurred to smudges.
A moth-eaten child’s blanket rests atop a rotted footlocker. The initials L.K. stitched in gray-blue thread, barely legible.
A canopy bed collapsed in the center, curtains hanging like shredded veils. A single silver hairpin tarnished near one post.
🎻 The camera lingers on details:
A music box lid warped open, its mechanism rusted mute.
A mirror cracked down the center, draped in a threadbare shawl.
Childlike scribbles etched into stone at toddler height: stars, a tower, a circle… then nothing more.
FELONIOUS: (quiet, careful) “He sealed this floor long before he died.”
CLARION: (kneels by the cradle, fingertip brushing the rattle) “He had a wife… a child…”
SILVERLEAF: (soft, almost to herself) “And lost them. One after the other, maybe.”
No staff. No wards. No ghostly whisper.
Just the hollow ache of abandonment.
The party descends again, boots dulled by soot and silence.
🎬 SCENE: “Closing the Gate” — Base of Khazan’s Tower, Dusk Pressing In
EXT. KHAZAN’S TOWER — CLEARING — DUSK
Background music shifts: Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop
The bronze door hangs open. Beyond it, Lake Baratok lies glass-still beneath a bruised sky—orange drowning in indigo. Mist coils in from the treeline, thick and purposeful.
FLEETWOOD halts at the threshold, hand dropping to his blade. We’ve got company.
🎥 The camera shifts outside:
A ragged crescent of six figures waits where Ezmerelda’s wagon sat. Wolf-hunter leathers, weatherproof cloaks, crossbows slung low—but none familiar. Their silhouettes blur in the fog, but their stance is clear: not lost. Waiting.
One steps forward—a gaunt man with a white streak in his beard, one eye clouded. He leans on a longbow like a crutch, grin sharp beneath his hood.
STRANGER: “Heard there was a bit of a show earlier. Pretty lights. Shouting. That sort of thing draws attention.”
SZOLDAR: (stiffens, voice taut) “You’re not from Vallaki. I know every hunter within two rivers of that gate.”
STRANGER: (smile widening) “No, we’re not from Vallaki. Just passing through. Same as you.” (beat) “Heard an old wizard tower shook the snow loose today. Might be treasure inside. Might be answers. Might be… someone we’re meant to find.”
FELONIOUS: (low, to the others) “Wearing hunter skins doesn’t make them hunters. They’re circling.”
CLARION: (adjusts her gauntlet) “They haven’t drawn blades yet.”
SILVERLEAF: (razor-quiet) “Doesn’t mean they didn’t bring teeth.”
The white-streaked man tilts his head, counting the silhouettes in the doorway. His ruined eye gleams faintly in the half-light.
STRANGER Treasure’s not always silver. Many delicious things hide in old places. Dreams. Secrets. Names. (beat, smiling) All you need is the right sort of hunger to find them.
🎥 Wide shot: his companions begin to move. Not charging. Not yet. But stepping in, casual and methodical. One crouches near wagon ruts, brushing the earth. Another lowers a crossbow, but doesn’t raise it.
They form a crescent, cutting off retreat.
SZOLDAR curses under his breath. FELONIOUS’ fingers spark with restrained magic. CLARION shifts her stance.
SILVERLEAF (to Fleetwood) “You close that door, and they’ll come pounding with claws instead of questions.”
FLEETWOOD: “Might prefer that. At least then I know where to swing.”
Inside, the tower is a hollow maze of regret. Outside, the pack circles—smiling, silent, waiting for someone to flinch.
End Credits play over: Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop