Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 Opening Credits: Melodic War Productions presents
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Root Awakens A single lantern swings from a crooked post above Krezk’s gate—its flame steady despite the wind. Beneath it, bootprints vanish into churned snow. Lavender bundles hang from doorposts. A raven watches from the wall. The screen exhales: BAROVIA, etched into a moss-covered milestone. The camera pans to a frostbitten signpost: Abbey of Saint Markovia – 1 mile. The wind groans.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | The Village Holds Its Breath Krezk’s cottages huddle close, their steep roofs dusted with snow. Smoke curls from chimneys. Children peer from behind curtains. A scarecrow stands at the edge of the square, its chest pierced with a card: The Innocent. The mist parts. The soil hums.
🚶♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Travelers Settle The wanderers move through Krezk’s quiet lanes:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) sharpens his blade beneath a frost-covered arch, eyes scanning the Abbey’s silhouette.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneels beside a coughing elder, voice low as she recounts the tale of Saint Markovia.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) listens, gaze distant, fingers brushing frost from a raven feather.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) sketches sigils in the snow, each fading like breath.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) rolls his bone dice—they clatter against a stone step, revealing The Healer and The Broken One.
Ireena Kolyana (Tamsin Mackenzie) walks with the spirit mirror uncovered, its surface rippling.
Arabelle (Cailee Spaeny) pauses at a roadside shrine, placing a sprig of lavender. The mist curls upward, forming a spiral that lingers.
🎭 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
Cailee Spaeny as Arabelle
With:
Ben Kingsley as Atanz
David Straithairn as Baron Dmitri Krezkov
Leslie Manville as Anna Krezkova
And Michael Fassbender as The Abbot
🌫️ 0:34–0:46 | The Village Watches The gates remain closed. No fanfare. No fear. Just quiet. Baron Krezkov watches from his porch. His eyes are tired. His voice is steady. “You’ve brought the wine. And something older.”
A raven lands on the cart’s edge. It does not caw. It listens.
🏛️ 0:47–0:58 | The Abbey Waits The camera pans to the Abbey of Saint Markovia—steepled, silent, watching. Its windows are dark. Its bells do not ring. A figure moves behind the glass. The wind carries no whispers. Only breath.
🌿 0:59–1:10 | Final Note: The Wound and the Watcher Clarion and Atan kneel beside an elder. Their hands move in tandem—one with prayer, one with presence. The mist curls around them, not to hide, but to hold.
Arabelle watches from the square’s edge—half child, half oracle. The spirit mirror ripples. The raven feather trembles. The Abbey remains still. But something inside begins to stir.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
🎥 Curse of Strahd – Scene: “The Hearth Beneath the Fog”
Background Music: Krezk | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
EXT. KREZK VILLAGE – TWILIGHT
The light falls like ash. Snow drifts in the air, pale against the blue-gray dusk. Villagers retreat behind shuttered windows, their silhouettes vanishing into lamplight.
Baron Dmitri Krezkov steps forward, breath fogging in the chill. His voice is steady, but his eyes carry the weight of loss.
BARON KREZKOV: “You’ve done a kindness for this village. Without you, we would be colder. Lonelier. Stay under my roof tonight. It is not coin, but it is what we can give.”
Fleetwood nods, brushing snow from his shoulder. Clarion’s hand rests on her healer’s satchel—still heavy, though the burden feels lighter.
Krezkov turns to Atan.
BARON KREZKOV: “You too. You’ve healed more wounds in a day than the Abbey has in a year.”
Atan’s calm expression sharpens—not anger, not fear, but resistance.
ATAN: “I thank you. Truly. But I do not sleep where walls remember grief louder than dreams. I’ll find my place beneath the sky.”
Clarion tilts her head, sensing the tension but choosing silence. Fleetwood watches Atan’s back as he disappears into the mist, cloak snapping like paper in the wind.
GREEGAN: (half-whisper, to Felonious) “That man’s kindness has barbs. I don’t mind ‘em, but still—odd fellow.”
FELONIOUS: “Kindness without comfort is often the purest kind.”
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – NIGHT
The party follows Dmitri up a sloping path. Snowflakes cling to timbers carved with warding symbols. The cottage rises modestly—two stories, ivy crawling like old regrets across its stone foundation.
The wooden door opens. Firelight spills out, carrying the scent of stew, smoked herbs, and candle wax.
Inside: modest, clean, lived-in. Wooden beams etched with prayers to unnamed saints. On the mantle, a faded portrait of a boy—eyes bright, colors long gone.
Anna Krezkova (Leslie Manville) greets them with quiet hospitality. No words—just bowls placed, blankets handed, eyes gentle.
The camera lingers: children’s toys untouched for years, a cracked music box, a candle that refuses to stay lit.
Fleetwood settles near the fire. Clarion places her satchel beside folded linen. Ireena rests a hand on the windowsill, staring into the mist where Atan vanished.
Muriel watches the door, as though waiting for something forgotten to knock.
Silverleaf turns to Arabelle, who stands still in the center of the room. Her voice is barely audible:
ARABELLE : “This place has healed before. But not everything stayed healed.”
🎥 Curse of Strahd – Scene: “The Chores of Grace”
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – DUSK
The hearth crackles, shadows stretching across worn timber. Anna Krezkov stands at the center, sleeves rolled, apron dusted with flour and herbs. She gestures to a parchment with tidy handwriting—simple tasks, humble as prayers.
ANNA KREZKOV: “You’ve brought light to a dim day. It would be wrong not to invite that light into my home.” (smiling softly) “Dinner warms better with many hands. Just a few things—small ones.” (She lists them gently, like liturgies)” Feed the chickens, muck the pen, weed the patch, fetch milk from Kretyana Dolvof’s cow.”
The party responds in turn—each task claimed with quiet humor, each gesture a thread binding them to the village.
EXT. CHICKEN COOP – TWILIGHT
Greegan tosses grain with theatrical flair. The chickens cluck, unimpressed. One hops onto his shoulder. He names it Dreadwing.
GREEGAN: “Just like Yester Hill. Only fluffier. And less murderous.”
Ireena chuckles, brushing crumbs from her cloak. “You may have found your people.”
EXT. PEN – MUDDY
Fleetwood grunts under the weight of a rusted shovel. The pigs snort with mild judgment.
MURIEL: (dry commentary) “That one thinks you’re too clean to be trusted.”
Fleetwood nods grimly and steps deeper into the muck.
EXT. GARDEN – BEHIND THE COTTAGE
FELONIOUS: (squints at twisty stalks) “This one might be a protective ward. Or parsley.”
Clarion joins him, deftly sorting edible from enchanted. Atan passes by, offering soft counsel.
ATAN: “Dig shallow. Roots remember.”
FELONIOUS: (sighs) “I came for wine and death. Not therapy vegetables.”
EXT. SOUTHWEST PATH – SUNSET
Silverleaf and Arabelle walk the misted trail. Kretyana’s ivy-shrouded cottage glows with lantern light.
The widow greets them with a nod. Her cow, Blini, steps forward with regal patience. Arabelle hums a calming tune as Silverleaf fills the bucket.
KRETYANA: “She doesn’t give milk to mourners. But you… you smile like someone who survived it.”
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – NIGHT
Steam rises from the stewpot. Clarion stirs. Ireena slices roots. Fleetwood scrapes mud from his nails. Greegan fans the hearth with a feather. Felonious measures herbs like alchemy. Silverleaf sets down the milk with reverence. Arabelle hums near the fire.
Anna watches them all—eyes glimmering not with joy, but gratitude that aches just behind the ribs.
ANNA KREZKOV: “No coin could buy this evening. I hope it feeds you well.”
INT. KITCHEN – LATER
The laughter fades. Clarion reaches for thyme—and her fingers graze a mortar and pestle. Pale stone. Purple dust.
CLARION: (Sniffs) “Aconite?”
Her healer’s eye knows: not careless. Intentional.
She freezes, then sets it back. Wipes her fingers on linen.
CLARION: (softly, to herself) “Wolfsbane. Not for garden pests.”
She turns. Anna is watching. Their eyes meet. Silence.
Clarion nods once—acknowledgment without accusation. Anna nods back, slower. Her hand tightens on the spoon.
Fleetwood notices. Silverleaf lifts a brow. Arabelle’s tune falters. Felonious scribbles: aconite shelf—domestic placement.
Dinner continues. The hearth glows. Nothing spoken. But something else has entered the room: not danger, but awareness.
🕯️ Scene: “The Seeds of Departure” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV KITCHEN – TWILIGHT
Firelight flickers against stone, painting the walls in restless amber. The scent of turnips and rosemary drifts heavy, masking the strain that coils near the hearth. Steam sighs from the pot.
Silverleaf sits at the table, a folded map untouched beside her, a glass of wine untouched before her. Her ears catch everything—voices moving like wind through pine.
Outside the window, a robin pecks at the feeder. Wings brush the glass, a living rhythm against the stillness within.
DMITRI: (whispered, urgent) “I know you’ve made up your mind. But Anna—please. Reconsider.”
ANNA: (stiffening) “Dmitri—”
He reaches for her hands. They’re cold, calloused, unmoving.
DMITRI: (strained) “Gargosh, Ivan, Falkon—they’ll help. No questions. Ivan’s mules could carry us to Vallaki before nightfall. There’s a healer near the southern gate. Someone who understands Kala’s condition.”
Anna recoils as if burned.
ANNA: (barely above a whisper) “No.” (then firmer) “I made my choice—for Kala, and for our people. How dare you ask me to flee like a coward?”
Silverleaf shifts in her seat. Not a word. Not a breath.
The robin flutters again, knocking a sunflower seed to the sill.
The silence is absolute.
There is no arguing with a woman who has buried more than a daughter.
Only the hiss of stew bubbling too fast.
💔 Scene: “The Robin at the Window” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV KITCHEN – DUSK
Candlelight flickers. The stew thickens, its scent of rosemary and bone broth filling the silence. The cottage holds its breath.
Silverleaf doesn’t mean to overhear. Her Elven ears make that impossible. She sifts through sounds: broth stirred in liquid hush, fire popping in the grate, a robin outside pecking at dry sunflower seeds. Its wings beat once against the window—a soft thud.
Then—voices.
DMITRI: (voice low, glancing her way) “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to lose you. With Ilya gone, and Kala in so much pain…”
A sob caught between ribs. Silverleaf doesn’t turn, but her shoulders rise half an inch. The robin hops again. It doesn’t flee. It stays.
DMITRI: (strangled) “I can’t do this on my own. I can’t do this without you.”
A pause.
ANNA: (quietly) “We’ll figure this out. We always do.”
She pulls him close. Just once. Not romantic. Human. Threadbare comfort sewn from scraps of mourning.
Silverleaf folds the map. She watches the robin leave the feeder, flying low—gone beyond the frame.
The hearth crackles. No one speaks. Not even the wind.
🕯️ Scene: “The Echo in Kala’s Eyes” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – NIGHT
Bowls pass hand to hand. Gratitude wraps the room like a woolen shawl. Firelight flickers.
Then—Anna rises.
ANNA :(voice steady, practiced) “This is our daughter. Kala.”
From the hallway comes a pale girl in a patchwork dress. Her steps are light. Her eyes are not. Blank, but not vacant. (Brooklyn Prince)
She sits beside Felonious, who stiffens. Her presence is uncanny—too similar to what he saw in Vallaki. Lady Wachter’s daughter in the attic. A broken doll persona. Trauma left to hum unchecked.
KALA: (softly, without warning) “If something bad happened, but then went away… is it like it never happened?”
The table quiets.
Felonious blinks. The scholar inside him reaches for logic. But the man—wounded, thoughtful—knows this is not a question for books.
FELONIOUS: (after a long pause) “No. It’s still there. But sometimes, if you tell the story the right way… it can change shape.”
Kala nods. Her eyes remain fixed forward.
KALA: (still, not sad) “I don’t think bad dreams ever go away.”
She begins eating. Spoon clicks against ceramic.
ANNA: (to the party, gently) “She’s been like this… since she took ill. Just a few days ago.”
She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to.
Silverleaf watches without blinking. Clarion’s fingers tighten around her fork. Dmitri doesn’t look up.
Outside, the robin has returned to the feeder.
🌒 Scene: “The Door Opens Twice” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – EVENING
The hearth glows, but its warmth feels thin. Clarion steps forward, healer’s instinct alive, her hand hovering near Kala, who sits unmoving—soil in winter, waiting for thaw.
Before words can bloom—
KNOCK.
Not sharp. Not impatient. Just… present.
All turn. Dmitri stiffens. Anna’s ladle clinks against the pot. Kala blinks once.
Dmitri opens the door.
An old woman stands there. Woven shawl. Earthy scent. A smile curled at the edge of recognition.
Then—without transition, without sound—she vanishes.
In her place: a man. (Michael Fassbender)
Brown monk’s robe, edges sun-faded. Around his neck, a painted wooden sun—delicate, deliberate, swaying with his breath. His face is young. His presence is not.
Eyes like cold river stone. Unblinking. The air stills. Even the fire lowers its crackle.
Background Music shifts: The Abbot | Unofficial Curse of Strahd OST | 1h Dark Orchestral & Piano Theme Music | Loop
DMITRI: (hushed, trembling) “Kala. Go to your room.”
She obeys without protest. Her footsteps do not echo.
ANNA: (frozen) “You said… you wouldn’t—”
THE MONK: (serene) “I did not knock. I arrived.”
Silverleaf’s gaze narrows. Clarion shields concern behind calm. Felonious lowers his spoon, lips shaping half-formed hypotheses.
The monk’s eyes flick once toward the hearth, then rest on Arabelle.
MONK: (to no one, or perhaps everyone) There is a sickness in truth. Shall we sit?
🌒 Scene: “The Door Opens Twice” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV HOME – LATE AFTERNOON
A thin shaft of gold spills through the shutters, catching dust and silence midair. The hearth glows low. Anna stands near the table, posture polite, uncertain. Dmitri, arms half-crossed, flinches as the latch clicks.
The door opens.
The Abbot steps inside.
Immaculate. Serene. He glides across the threshold like mist given form. His robe hangs in perfect folds. His pale eyes sweep the room—not searching, but knowing.
THE ABBOT: (smiling gently) “Ah… the Krezkovs entertain. How delightful.”
A pause. Longer than needed.
You’ve found company. And such interesting company, at that.
His gaze lingers on the party—light, not piercing, but appraising. Anna shifts. Dmitri clears his throat.
DMITRI: (tentative) “Abbot… may we ask—what brings you here today?”
The Abbot doesn’t answer. Not yet. He moves toward the hearth, drawn to the carved shelves—saints, birds, sleeping wolves. His fingers trace the dusty wood with reverence.
THE ABBOT: (softly) “Is it… a sin to visit the home of friends and neighbors?”
He lifts a small statue. A sleeping wolf. The faded face stirs something behind his eyes.
THE ABBOT: (turning, smile blooming) “Especially friends and neighbors who may soon be family?”
His gaze meets Anna’s. Not leering. Not cruel. Just… curious. She looks down. Dmitri stiffens.
Fleetwood watches, hand hovering near his hilt. Reflex, not intent.
FLEETWOOD: (low, uncertain) “Why are they afraid of this man?”
The Abbot turns, still cradling the wooden saint.
THE ABBOT: (smiling gently) “There is nothing to fear.”
He steps closer. His voice is honeyed, smooth, still.
THE ABBOT: “Surely a knight understands there is no fear in doing one’s duty… Nor shame or sin in accepting one’s fate.”
His gaze sweeps the room—Fleetwood, Anna, Dmitri, the party—with the composure of someone who sees through masks, past flesh, into the bones of destiny.
THE ABBOT: (softly) “Like the sun, moon, and stars… we all have our parts to play.”
A pause. No smile now. Just serenity, cloaked in implication.
THE ABBOT: “And theirs is a blessed one.”
He doesn’t say whose. Or why Anna’s hand trembles against her apron.
Fleetwood doesn’t blink. The Abbot’s words roll off him like mist off oiled armor. That serenity feels curated. Too still. Like a painting watching back.
Clarion softens. Her shoulders ease. The cadence blesses her. She listens like a disciple glimpsing the outline of the divine.
Felonious leans toward the wall, eyes narrowing beneath his hood. That smile—was it always that slow to fade?
Greegan snorts, arms crossed. He watches the room as much as the visitor. Watches how Anna’s breath shortens.
FLEETWOOD: (quietly) “He speaks of stars and fate, but not of choice.”
The Abbot’s gaze finds him. That same smile returns—warm, practiced.
THE ABBOT: (serene) “Choice is the illusion of those not yet called.”
A beat.
A hush.
THE ABBOT: (gentler still) “But every soul comes to its moment. As yours shall. I have faith.”
The Abbot traces the curve of the carved wolf—tender, like prayer. His features tighten. Not anger. Not regret. Something quieter. Grief with nowhere to live.
THE ABBOT: (voice dimmed) “It is true that many instruments of the gods first reject their calling…”
He glances toward Fleetwood. Recognition. Warning.
THE ABBOT: “But is it not written… Those who refuse to serve the divine become its tools. And those who serve the divine… become the divine.”
The room stills. Even the fire hesitates to crackle.
THE ABBOT: (mournful murmur) “The choice, I fear, is never an easy one.”
Then—without ceremony or threat—he inclines his head to Dmitri. A gesture of profound, unfathomable grace. Honor. Warning. Farewell.
Clarion’s breath catches. Fleetwood’s fingers twitch. Anna stares at the wolf carving, as if it might leap down and speak. Greegan shifts his weight, like a hunter marking the moment a beast turns its back.
EXT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – TWILIGHT
Snow drifts in silence. Each flake a secret, whispered from sky to earth.
The Abbot steps beyond the threshold. Behind him, the hearth glows gold. Ahead, the moonlight gleams cold and silver. He stands between warmth and void—framed, motionless.
He does not speak. He does not breathe.
Still. Solemn. Almost sorrowful.
And then—he is gone.
No sound. No transition. Just absence.
In his place:
A creature of impossible grace.
An eagle, vast as nightmare or blessing. Feathered in white and shadow. Eyes burning with a knowing older than snow.
The flurry curls around its body—drawn to holiness, or to something hollow wearing holiness like a cloak.
It lifts its wings.
One beat. Two.
With the third—airborne.
A slash of alabaster against the velvet sky. Rising. Rising.
Until even the trees forget its name.
Anna clutches her chest. Dmitri bows his head, as if the mountain itself just rose. Fleetwood watches, unmoved—creased between thoughts. Clarion steps forward, reaching for something already gone.
Barovia holds its breath.
And releases nothing.
🕯 Scene: “The Weight of Resurrection”
🌒 Scene: “The Price of Mercy” – Curse of Strahd
Background music shifts: Krezk | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
EXT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – NIGHT
Sleet needles the air. The wind cuts sharper than before. Fleetwood shifts—not from discomfort, but to steady the storm behind his ribs.
FLEETWOOD: “I felt it. Something like what stirs in Chardastes’ temple. But holy doesn’t mean gentle. Doesn’t mean just.” (beat) “What does this Abbot want with you?”
The question falls like a blade—dropped, not swung.
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – CONTINUOUS
Dmitri kneels at the hearth, clutching the wolf figurine as if reshaping it into a memory that doesn’t hurt. His voice is shredded by the telling.
DMITRI: “He wants her heart. Anna’s.” (voice trembling) “The day after the werewolf came—after Kala… after I held her as she died—Otto and Zygfrek found us. Dragged us to the Abbey. Said the Morninglord had heard our plea.”
Anna, pale as wax, has taken no breath in minutes. She stares at Fleetwood.
ANNA: “He brought her back. Whole. Breathing. No scars. But lifeless.”
Clarion shifts closer, torn between mercy and alarm.
CLARION: “The resurrection—it wasn’t blessed. He demanded, he didn’t ask. I’d have felt that.”
FLEETWOOD: “You wouldn’t feel the divine in necromancy. But you would in sacrament. And there was something… threaded through him. As though Heaven touched him—but didn’t claim him.”
ANNA: “He called it the Morninglord’s mercy. Said I had one month.” (whispers) “She still stares at the grave. Like she remembers… being there.
Arabelle, curious despite herself, speaks gently.
ARABELLE: “Kala’s soul might have crossed too far. Not all roads back leave you whole.”
DMITRI : “She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink the same. Sometimes she touches her chest… like she’s listening for her own heartbeat.”
CLARION: “And what of Ilya?”
Anna looks down.
ANNA: “Gone. Maybe taken. Maybe fled. He couldn’t look at her. Said she was… hollow.”
Silverleaf speaks softly, almost to herself.
SILVERLEAF: “If holiness demands blood… what exactly is it blessing?”
The question lingers.
Fleetwood watches the shadows move across the walls—some cast by fire, some by memory.
The hearth crackles. The sleet hisses against the shutters. No one answers.
🩸 Scene: “The Stitcher’s Gospel” – Curse of Strahd
INT. KREZKOV COTTAGE – NIGHT
The fire spits and hisses, shadows stretching too long for the walls they cling to. Dmitri leans against the hearth, eyes fixed not on Fleetwood, but on the past unraveling inside his mind.
DMITRI: “You’ve seen Otto. And Zygfrek. Maybe others around town. Faces like patchwork—animal, man, and something else. That’s the Abbot’s way. He doesn’t heal… he edits.”
Fleetwood listens, unmoving. Clarion stands behind, jaw clenched, bracing for what comes next.
DMITRI: “He takes the broken ones. The lost ones. Bodies that can’t fight back. He says he’s fixing them—stitching purpose into ruin. But it’s not life. Just pieces forced to fit.”
FLEETWOOD: “He’s making Mongrelfolk.”
DMITRI: “That’s what folk call them, yes. But they were people once. Now they serve. They laugh at things that hurt. They cry when he smiles.”
A log snaps in the fire. The sound is too sharp, too final.
DMITRI: (hoarse, bitter) “And now he wants Anna’s heart. Not to save her. To complete Vasilka. His creature. His bride. The way he made Otto—he means to change her. Turn her from mercy to obedience”.
CLARION: “It’s sacrilege.”
DMITRI: “It’s worse. It’s hope weaponized. We prayed. We begged. And he answered with a smile… and a scalpel.”
He turns to Fleetwood, desperation carved into every syllable.
DMITRI : “You asked what he wants with us? He wants our grief. Our trust. Our belief. Then he’ll twist it into something with legs and eyes— and just enough faith to make you think it’s holy.”
Fleetwood’s gaze hardens, the firelight catching the steel in his eyes.
FLEETWOOD: “Faith isn’t just light. Sometimes it burns.”
Fade to End Credits
End credits play over: The Abbot | Unofficial Curse of Strahd OST | 1h Dark Orchestral & Piano Theme Music | Loop