Opening 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 Innocent. A charm of bone and braid dangles from the latch, spinning slowly—this time, with no wind at all. A whisper trails the camera: “She’s still in there.”
🚶♀️ 0:21–0:33 | The Travelers Within
The wanderers move through the gate, marked not by arrival—but by intrusion. Each carries a piece of Stella’s fate:
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.
Ireena Kolyana (Tamsin Mackenzie) walks behind them, her cloak drawn tight, eyes fixed on the spirit mirror slung across her back.
Starring:
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
Tamsin Mackenzie as Ireena Kolyana
🃏 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. A sixth card flutters unseen, caught in the rafters: The Soul.
🎵 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 begins:
🎥 SMASH CUT TO:
Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop
🎬 Scene: The Tome and the Threshold
INT. BARON’S STUDY – NIGHT
The door creaks open.
VICTOR enters, clutching a leatherbound tome. Its cover is warped by time, corners branded with a seal that flickers in the candlelight—like it’s trying not to be seen.
He sets it down. The room stills.
FELONIOUS steps forward, fingers twitching. He opens the book fast, flipping with precision.
INSERT – PAGE ETHEREALNESS. Marked in red ink. Diagrams twist like they’re alive. Margins bleed with warnings, annotations, and one phrase underlined three times: “Do not cast alone.”
Felonious reads. Studies. Sinks into silence.
Then—he exhales. Long. Tired.
FELONIOUS :(quietly) “I can cast it.”
The room shifts.
SILVERLEAF straightens, eyes wide. VICTOR leans in, breath held. FLEETWOOD and CLARION enter behind them, sensing the change.
Felonious doesn’t look up.
FELONIOUS: “But only for myself.” (beat) “With this iteration, I can pierce the veil. Walk the Border Ethereal. Reach Stella.”
He closes the book slowly. Looks up.
FELONIOUS: “But if I go alone—I face whatever walks there. Whatever hunts her. No backup. No anchor. Not even a lifeline.”
CLARION: “There’s no way to pull us in?”
Felonious hesitates. Then nods.
FELONIOUS: “There is. But it’s ugly.”
He flips back—pages torn, ink smeared.
FELONIOUS: “Khazan called it Soulfold Transit. It carries living minds into the veil. Merges anchors. Forges a group tether.”
He looks up. Grave now.
FELONIOUS: “But it needs a hagstone. A heartstone. The black gem inside a Night Hag. It acts as the bridge. Like a pulse made of shadows.”
Silence.
FELONIOUS: “And I haven’t got one.”
The room freezes.
FLEETWOOD glances at the chalk circle. GREEGAN stares at the ceiling. SILVERLEAF: (mutters)“Of course it’s a hag.”
Then—
IREENA steps forward.
IREENA: “Then we find one.”
She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t blink.
Behind her, the mirror pulses once.
As if Stella agrees.
🎬 SCENE: The Crossroads of Curse and Cure
INT. VICTOR’S WORKROOM – BARON’S MANSION – NEVYAR 5, DEEP NIGHT
The candles sputter in their brass cradles. Shadows stretch long across the floor. The mirror dims again—Stella’s image reduced to a shimmer, like breath on glass. Every book in the room seems to hold its breath.
FELONIOUS stands over the grimoire, floor-length and bound in cracked leather. His fingers twitch. Diagrams spin in his mind—glyphs, margins, warnings.
FELONIOUS: (half to himself) “Dreams. A trap for dreams… Could that be her method? A siphon? A tether?”
He snaps the book shut.
FELONIOUS: “We need to see the refugee camp. Now.”
He turns, coat swirling, already halfway to the door—
GREEGAN intercepts, leaning in the doorway, half smirk, half shadow.
GREEGAN: “Easy, silkshoes. Lady Wachter’s man is waiting at the inn. Skip her dinner plans, and we’ll be the drama she didn’t order.”
FLEETWOOD stiffens nearby, gaze distant. CLARION frowns, arms folded. IREENA watches Felonious carefully—sensing the shift in his rhythm.
GREEGAN: “She asked for blood. You show up chasing ghosts in the mud, she’ll ask for yours.”
Felonious stops mid-stride. One hand hovers near his pocket watch. His breath sharpens—then steadies.
He turns slowly. His face is lit with quiet resolve.
FELONIOUS: “She asked for blood because she thought that was justice. But if we bring her daughter back from the veil…” (He lowers his hand) “She’ll thank us in wine and thrones.”
VICTOR steps forward.
VICTOR: “Wachter doesn’t reroute well. But she adores miracles. Especially ones she can claim.”
SILVERLEAF brushes dust off her gloves.
SILVERLEAF: “And if Stella’s cure doesn’t earn mercy… We can always kill Izek after.”
Felonious tightens his coat.
FELONIOUS: “Then we visit the camp. Find the Night Hag. Learn her game.”
He glances at the mirror once more.
FELONIOUS: “And buy Stella time—before she dreams herself forgotten.”
The party gathers. Torn between shadowy instruction and luminous possibility.
FADE TO BLACK.
🎬 SCENE: Hope Without Shelter
EXT. REFUGEE CAMP – OUTSIDE VALLAKI – NEVYAR 6, DAWN
Background Music: Village of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The sky hangs low—blue-gray and bruised. Clouds curl like exhausted sentries above the mist, which clings to the earth like breath that won’t let go. The walls of Vallaki loom nearby, tall and silent—sharp silhouettes against a morning that hasn’t yet decided if it wants to be kind.
CAMERA TRACKS the party as they step off the road. Boots crunch frostbitten grass. Mud clings like memory.
They pass lean-tos patched with sailcloth, crude stone shelters, and cookfires that barely warm the air.
FELONIOUS pulls his collar high, eyes scanning for signs of dream rot—his breath fogging in short, anxious bursts.
SILVERLEAF walks slowly, gaze solemn, senses flared for planar fractures.
FLEETWOOD watches the spaces between tents—not for threats, but for the quiet desperation that moves like smoke.
CLARION keeps a steady pace, hands tucked tight, her breath a rhythm of discipline.
GREEGAN lingers at the rear, unusually quiet, dice untouched in his pocket.
IREENA leads them, eyes fixed on the camp like she owes it something she can’t repay.
From between the tents, two figures emerge.
EMERIC (Ben Mendelsohn (Rogue One, Bloodline))—a man carved from shadow and sorrow. Silver hair fogs around his temples. His coat is too fine for the cold, too worn to protect. Beside him, MAGDA (Millicent Simmonds (A Quiet Place))—young, but aged by grief. Her eyes are hollows rimmed in blue. Her fingers twitch against her coat, tugging at prayers no longer heard.
Magda stops short.
MAGDA: (softly) “I remember you. You stood against Izek. You made the beast blink.”
Felonious bows slightly. Silverleaf nods. Fleetwood doesn’t move.
Magda steps closer. Hope flickers beneath the fatigue.
MAGDA: “Did you find a way? Has the Lady… or the Baron… granted passage? Supplies? Anything?”
A pause.
Then—
IREENA steps forward. Her voice is quiet. Steady.
IREENA: “We’re working toward something greater. Toward healing. But we haven’t secured aid. Not yet.”
Magda’s smile cracks. Folds inward like a house crumbling.
Emeric closes his eyes.
EMERIC: “Then nothing’s changed.”
Ireena lowers her gaze.
IREENA We haven’t given up. Don’t you either.
CAMERA PANS LOW—the mist curls around their boots. From deeper in the camp, a child coughs. A man sings a lullaby in a language that doesn’t believe in dawn.
And far above— Unseen. But felt— Something in the veil watches. Claws wrapped around dream-thread. Hungry.
🎬 SCENE: Pastries and Poison
EXT. REFUGEE CAMP – OUTSIDE VALLAKI – NEVYAR 6, MORNING
A sallow sun creeps over the ridge, casting bruised gold across the camp. Smoke curls from weak fires. The air smells of copper and damp cloth. The party stands beneath a crooked tent pole, shadows long, breath visible.
MAGDA wraps her arms around herself, face drawn tight—like a curtain pulled too far across a window that won’t shut. Her voice trembles—caught between exhaustion and fury.
MAGDA: “We’re losing them. Every week, more fall into trance. They just… sit. No speech. No movement.”
She gestures toward a tent near the rear.
Inside: two young men lie motionless on hay bundles. One smiles faintly. The other murmurs in sleep—wet, hollow.
MAGDA: “Dream pastries. Morgantha brings them twice a week. Always cheerful. Always quiet. They smell like fruit. But they rot the soul.”
GREEGAN flinches. His tone darkens.
GREEGAN: “Morgantha. She tried to sell us some. Called them “blissful little breaks.” Said pain was optional—if you had the right palate.”
He glances at FELONIOUS, who already wears the look of a man assembling a curse from crumbs.
GREEGAN: “I told you then—she sounded like Iron Ring pushers. Smile too wide. Words too smooth. She wasn’t selling food. She was selling escape.”
SILVERLEAF steps back, eyes scanning the tents. CLARION crouches beside one of the sleepers, checking pulse, listening for signs of soul sickness. FLEETWOOD stands still, arms folded, jaw tight.
Magda’s voice breaks.
MAGDA: “They think it’s kindness. They think she’s their friend. But a quarter of the camp has stopped eating. Stopped bathing. Stopped wanting anything… except another dream.”
FELONIOUS kneels beside the youth. He touches a faint streak of glaze on the boy’s lips. It glows—just barely—in the morning light.
FELONIOUS: “It’s arcane. Alchemical. Subtle. Possibly planar. I’d wager the trance walks close to the Border Ethereal.”
He looks up. Quiet. Grim.
FELONIOUS: “If the Night Hag is here… this is her tether. The pastries are her trap. She’s feeding on what they dream.”
A breeze lifts the tent flap.
Another sleeper lies inside—eyes half-open, pupils consumed by milky gray. Not dead. Not awake. Just fading.
IREENA lowers her gaze.
IREENA: “They think it’s peace. But it’s poison.”
GREEGAN tightens his coat.
GREEGAN: “Then let’s find Morgantha. And make sure she never sells another crumb.”
The wind shifts.
It carries the scent of pastry.
And beneath it— Rot.
🎬 SCENE: The Withering Dream
EXT. REFUGEE CAMP – VALLAKI OUTSKIRTS – NEVYAR 6, MORNING
Mist thickens like breath held too long. The light struggles against the gray, casting long, uncertain shadows that stretch toward the tents—fingers searching for warmth.
The party gathers near a threadbare fire pit. Smoke curls weakly. The air smells of damp wool and ash.
MAGDA stands beneath a sagging canvas, arms crossed tight, voice brittle from sleepless nights.
MAGDA: “Morgantha hasn’t come back. It’s been… two days. Maybe more. The pastries ran out yesterday.”
Her tone flirts with relief—but dread wins.
FELONIOUS watches her carefully, eyes sharp. SILVERLEAF scans the camp’s edges, listening as much as looking. FLEETWOOD shifts beside IREENA, uneasy. CLARION remains quiet, hands clenched. GREEGAN leans against a post, brows knit.
Magda gestures toward a tent stitched from faded sailcloth.
MAGDA: “Franz is in there. He used to fix toys. Tell stories. Now he barely speaks.”
She hesitates. Then looks at Felonious.
MAGDA: “You said something about a Night Hag? I don’t know what that is. But Franz… he dreams of something awful.”
The words ripple through the party like cold wind through bone.
MAGDA: “He described a woman with dead blue skin. Horns like a ram. Teeth yellow as candle rot. He says she pulls him by the throat while he sleeps— And he wakes up weaker every time.”
CLARION gasps softly. FELONIOUS stiffens. SILVERLEAF mutters—It’s her.
Magda nods.
MAGDA: “He’s wasting. Skin loose. Eyes dark. Like something’s draining him. But there’s no wound. No sickness we know.”
Background music shifts: Shadows of Dread | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Thematic Combat Music | Loop
🎬 SCENE: The Sickness Beneath Sleep
EXT. REFUGEE CAMP – OUTSIDE VALLAKI – NEVYAR 6, MORNING
The sky is the color of healing that never comes—gray-blue, bruised, and brittle. Fabric shelters shudder in the wind, their ropes pulled taut by gusts that sound too much like distant weeping. Smoke from dying fires clings low, curling around boots and hope with equal weight.
The party moves deeper into the camp.
MAGDA leads, her stride steady despite the wear in her bones. She nods to familiar faces—hollow-eyed, wrapped in blankets, staring into the middle distance like they’re waiting for a memory to return.
📍 Franz’s tent sits near the edge, beside a patch of tangled shrubs. It’s sturdier than most—scavenged wood, faded canvas, a crest too weathered to name. The air is colder here.
Inside: FRANZ (Michael Stuhlbarg (Call Me By Your Name, Boardwalk Empire, The Shape of Water)) lies supine on a nest of straw and cloth. Flickering lamplight dances across his skin—loose, pale, tinged with ash. His eyes blink slowly. But they blink.
Beside him, NYANKA (Auliʻi Cravalho) kneels—young, fierce, and fraying. Her black hair is tied back with a strip of dyed lace. Her fingers work quickly over a bundle of dried herbs and crushed mushrooms. A bowl of steaming liquid rests nearby, clouded with flecks of green and gold.
NYANKA: (softly) “You need to drink this. It’ll ease your breath. Might draw out the fever…”
Franz turns his head. Weak. Silent.
CLARION crouches beside them. She studies the stillness in Franz’s limbs, the weight behind his eyes. She touches his wrist. Then his temple.
CLARION: “This isn’t physical. His body’s fading because something else is pulling him out.”
The tent flap rustles.
VAN RICHTEN steps in, coat brushing dust from the threshold. His voice is calm. Too calm.
VAN RICHTEN: “How long has this been happening?”
Nyanka doesn’t look up. Her hands still. Her voice is tight.
NYANKA: “Since Morgantha came last. Four nights ago. He ate one of the pastries. Thought it might help him sleep.”
She turns to Franz, eyes wide with pleading.
NYANKA: “Tell them what you saw. Please.”
Franz stares at the canvas ceiling. Then—barely audible:
FRANZ : “Not while you’re here.” (A beat) “Please.”
Nyanka stiffens. Magda places a hand on her back, guiding her gently out. EMERIC lingers a moment—sorrow carved deep in his face—then slips into the mist beyond the flap.
Inside, the tent falls quiet.
Just Franz.
And the ones chasing ghosts to rescue dreams.
🎬 SCENE: “The Price of Dreams” — Franz’s Tent, Refugee Camp, Nevyar 6 Morning
🎬 SCENE: The Sickness Beneath Sleep – Confession
INT. FRANZ’S TENT – REFUGEE CAMP – NEVYAR 6, MORNING
The air inside the tent is still. Oppressive. Thin canvas breathes against the wind but offers no comfort. Lamplight flickers over FRANZ’s sunken face, each tremor outlining the sharp contours—cheekbones too prominent, eyes ringed in gray. The silence tastes like confession waiting to surface.
VAN RICHTEN sits beside him, hands clasped. FELONIOUS kneels, pen poised over parchment. CLARION and SILVERLEAF stand just inside the flap. IREENA watches quietly, sorrow settling on her shoulders like snowfall.
Franz speaks. His voice is cracked parchment.
FRANZ: “It started… three months ago. Alana—my wife—she fell to a fever. No healer. No cure. She died holding our daughter’s hand.”
He swallows the next part.
FRANZ: “Then the mists changed. Strahd woke up again. I knew what it meant. I took Myrtle and Fyodor and fled to Vallaki.”
His eyes drift toward the lamp. Toward places only memory lives.
FRANZ: “We made it. But we weren’t welcome. No coin. No room inside the walls.”
Felonious stops writing.
Van Richten’s jaw tightens.
FRANZ: “Then she appeared. Morgantha. Kind smile. Warm basket. Said her pastries helped with grief. I took one. Ate it. And… I dreamed of Alana.” (His voice shivers).
FRANZ: “She was whole. Smiling. Talking. Laughing. I could smell her hair. I could hold her hand. It was real. So I bought more. Every coin I had. Sold my coat. Took extra work just for another taste.”
Silverleaf shifts. Clarion folds her arms tighter. Greegan stares at the dirt floor.
Franz lowers his gaze.
FRANZ: “Then… when my gold was gone, she came again. Morgantha. Said there was another price.” (He pauses) “She wanted my children.”
A silence. Dense as stone.
FRANZ: “I… I gave them to her.” (His shoulders shake) “I thought maybe Alana would come back. That it was all part of something bigger. But when she started walking away… Something snapped. I chased her. Screamed. Tried to take them back.”
His eyes close tight.
FRANZ: “She touched my forehead. Spoke words I didn’t understand.”
The lamplight dims—just for a moment. As if the memory chills the flame.
FRANZ: “I woke up with empty arms. And nothing else.”
Clarion steps forward gently.
CLARION: “And the dreams?”
Franz nods. His hands shake.
FRANZ: “Since that night… I dream of lying on a stone wheel. A millstone. Bound. She leans over me. Mouth stretched too wide. Pulls the breath from my lungs like steam off soup. It hurts. Every time. And when I wake… I’m less than I was.”
A beat.
Van Richten stands slowly. His voice is low.
VAN RICHTEN: “She took your children. And she’s still feeding.”
Franz reaches toward him. Not for comfort. For absolution.
FRANZ: “Please… Don’t let them forget me.”
Outside, the wind brushes the tent.
🎬 SCENE: The Calculus of Warlocks
INT. FRANZ’S TENT – REFUGEE CAMP – NEVYAR 6, MORNING FADES
Smoke curls from a nearby cookfire, slipping through the canvas like the breath of memory. Inside, the air is thick—herbs that haven’t helped, truths that can’t be unsaid. The party sits in silence, Franz’s confession still echoing in the corners.
FELONIOUS paces near the entrance. His coat flares with each turn, fingers twitching like a conductor with no orchestra. His brow is furrowed—not with doubt, but with design.
FELONIOUS: “If Morgantha’s a Night Hag… Then we know where she’s nesting. That windmill. North of the crossroads.”
SILVERLEAF folds her arms. CLARION nods once.
SILVERLEAF: “She said she had two “daughters.” Three of them.”
CLARION: “It’s a coven.”
Felonious exhales through his nose. He leans on Franz’s table, tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm.
FELONIOUS: “If I go alone into the Ethereal… I face what she’s feeding on. And if they’ve rooted there—three hags, not one— They won’t give up Stella without a fight. Or worse… without replacement.”
🎬 SCENE: The Price of Liberation
INT. FRANZ’S TENT – REFUGEE CAMP – NEVYAR 6, NOON
The air inside the canvas shelter hangs heavy—burned herbs, old sweat, and fear no poultice can cure. FRANZ lies still in the corner, lips parted, breath shallow. A man dreaming too close to claws.
Outside, wind claws through the camp’s ragged edges, dragging laughter and despair into silence.
Inside, the party stands in a tight circle.
FLEETWOOD: “All right. So how do we sever her hold on these people? This dream tether—whatever that hag’s got him wrapped in. What cuts it loose?”
Felonious exhales, brushing frost from his cuffs. His eyes gleam—unwilling to lie, hesitant to speak.
VAN RICHTEN steps forward. No drama. Just gravel and truth.
VAN RICHTEN: “You kill her.”
The room stills. Candles flicker.
VAN RICHTEN: “Or you make a deal.”
GREEGAN’s eyebrows shoot upward. CLARION freezes mid-step. IREENA leans forward, lips parted. SILVERLEAF mutters something in Elvish—sharp, bitter.
FLEETWOOD: “No third option?”
Van Richten’s expression darkens.
VAN RICHTEN: “Not for Night Hags. They don’t let go. Their victims become anchors to power. She’s feeding on him because she claimed him.”
Felonious finally speaks. His voice is laced with bitterness.
FELONIOUS: “She stitched his soul to her millstone. His dreams are her supper.”
He looks up.
FELONIOUS: “We go in. We find her. We destroy her. Or we offer something worse than what she already owns.”
The wind outside intensifies, tugging at the canvas.
From somewhere deeper in the camp, a child cries out in sleep.
Van Richten adjusts his coat. His voice is quiet.
VAN RICHTEN: “Be careful when making bargains with monsters.”
A pause.
VAN RICHTEN: “They never want what you’re offering. They want what you’re hiding.”
🎬 SCENE: Preparations and Promises
EXT. REFUGEE CAMP – NEVYAR 6, AFTERNOON
The wind cuts through the camp like a whisper of what’s coming. Smoke rises from weary cookfires. Children sleep beneath thin blankets. A hush settles over Franz’s tent—canvas walls worn thin, holding the weight of truth. The choice has been spoken. Now it waits to be answered.
FLEETWOOD steps forward. His cloak catches the breeze like a banner raised without ceremony.
FLEETWOOD: “You already know what I’m going to say.”
No drama. No flourish. Just certainty—solid and sharp.
GREEGAN exhales, cracking his knuckles.
GREEGAN: “I’m scared green. But I’ve known these types. Give them an inch of misery, they build empires on it. She’s never going to stop.”
CLARION doesn’t speak. She steps to Fleetwood and takes his hand. Their fingers intertwine. That says more than any vow.
SILVERLEAF stares into the wind. Her eyes bright—like stars on the verge of battle.
SILVERLEAF: “I’m going. There’s a line in the dirt. And I refuse to be on the wrong side of it.”
FELONIOUS sighs. Long. Theatrical. But this time, it’s not for show.
He looks around—at the tent, the camp, the fading boy.
FELONIOUS : “This sounds exactly like suicide.”
He adjusts his coat. Straightens his collar.
FELONIOUS: “But if we’re going down… Let’s do it pissing off the coven with a poetic flourish. Better that than letting monsters carve kingdoms out of dreams.”
The wind shifts. The cookfires sputter. And somewhere beyond the veil—
Morgantha listens. Smiling.
FADE TO BLACK.
End Credits play over: Marilyn Manson - Sweet Dreams ( Are Made Of This ) - Official Audio HD