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:
Ezra Miller as Eiphill/Escher
Anya Taylor-Joy as Vasilka
And Michael Fassbender as The Abbot
🎭 Scene: “The Apothecary Lecture” – Act II, Morning
EXT. WINDING ROAD – MORNING
Background Music: Krezk | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
Mist still clings to the roots of the pines as dawn softens the horizon. The party trudges past frost-kissed hedgerows, breath steaming in the cold light. And then—
They see it.
The old apothecary, once broken and boarded, now stands open and oddly luminous. Its crooked sign (“Briar & Bone Remedies”) sways gently, restored overnight. Vines trimmed. Windows scrubbed. A lantern glows amber at the entrance.
Inside, a crowd of villagers sits rapt on makeshift stools fashioned from cauldrons and crates. The shelves brim with aged tomes, scattered herbs, and scrolls that glisten with alchemical ink.
At the front stands a man (Ezra Miller) —tall, graceful, draped in plum-colored robes with a hood pulled low. He lectures with elegance, hands weaving spirals in the air like conjuring thought itself.
Background music shifts: Strahd’s Brides Theme | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Ambient Music | Loop
ESCHER (disguised): “The only lie the living tell more than ‘I forgive you’… is ‘I am free.’” (pauses, smiles thinly) “Freedom is a story we tell to make captivity sweeter.”
His voice is like velvet across glass—familiar yet foreign, with an edge that cuts softly.
IREENA: (squinting, puzzled) “Master Eiphill… Strange… I’ve never heard of him before. But I feel that I know him.”
FELONIOUS: (frowning) “Not his name. But something in the posture. That voice…”
SILVERLEAF: (whispers) “He smells like velvet and blood.”
Escher continues:
He writes philosophical riddles onto dried parchment and gives them to children like toys.
He speaks of moral entropy, claiming “good” and “evil” are just flavors of usefulness.
He challenges villagers with questions that have no answer—then praises their confusion as enlightenment.
The villagers drink in his words, like thirsty ghosts stumbling upon poetry.
Outside, Kala tenses, fingers twitching. The apothecary’s stone steps hum faintly beneath her boots. Something beneath the floorboards remembers her.
GREEGAN: (low voice) “This wasn’t here yesterday.”
CLARION: (quiet and sharp) “It wasn’t supposed to be.”
🎭 Scene: “The Mask Slips” – Act II, Morning Continued
INT. OLD APOTHECARY – MAKESHIFT LECTURE HALL
Steam curls from mismatched mugs of herbal tea. Pages rustle like dry leaves. Villagers sit, half-enchanted, as “Eiphell” leans against a shelf of tinctures, one boot balanced on a crate of crushed lavender.
FELONIOUS: (taking a seat, smile polite) “You speak of freedom as illusion. Then tell me—does illusion itself have moral weight?”
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (raising a gloved hand thoughtfully) “Ah… now we walk into the marshes of metaphor.” (grinning) “An illusion may shape the soul if the soul consents. That, to me, is elegance.”
FELONIOUS: (tilting his head) “But how do you measure consent if the soul is deceived?”
Escher’s response falters. He circles the question, parrots beauty and control, waxes lyrical about “truths in shadow,” but it’s all wind-dancing—a mind trained in manipulation, not meaning.
SILVERLEAF: (drifts through the shelves, eyes narrowed)
A hand brushes parchment. A binding cracks. She lifts a leather-bound folio, its pages stuck together.
SILVERLEAF: (quietly, to Felonious) “These books… they smell like blood. Not metaphor. Not ink. Real.”
Felonious keeps his expression serene, but his fingertips clench lightly around his walking cane.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (eyes drifting toward Ireena at last)
He masks the recognition well—an imperceptible shift. But it’s there. The sudden knowledge. A girl who was supposed to be alone. A sacrifice with no audience.
His lips purse, just slightly. She laughs at something Clarion says, and that sound—joy—is the most unfamiliar thing in the room.
Escher resumes his lecture, but his rhythm stutters. For all the honeyed words, something sour curls beneath.
🎭 Scene: “The Philosopher’s Shame” – Act II, Morning Continued
INT. OLD APOTHECARY – PHILOSOPHY ROOM
The crowd quiets under the weight of Felonious’s words. His tone is calm, precise—each question a scalpel, each rebuttal a clean incision. He sits like a magistrate of truth, while Eiphell (Escher) paces too quickly now, robes swishing with barely concealed frustration.
FELONIOUS: (flatly) “Your argument relies on volition without verification. Your entire framework collapses if the soul cannot audit its own chains.” (leans forward slightly) “I’ve heard better logic from Bargle after his third bottle of plum wine.”
Scattered chuckles ripple through the villagers.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (still smiling, but his fingers twitch) “A clever mouth... but cleverness isn’t wisdom. Wisdom is knowing when truth is just noise.”
FELONIOUS: (eyebrow raised) “Interesting. That sounds eerily like the Count’s doctrine. You quoting castle dogma now, or just bleeding it?”
The moment lands. The air stiffens.
Escher freezes.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (curt, without thinking) “I don’t bleed.”
Felonious blinks once, then smiles—sharp, deliberate.
FELONIOUS: “Ah. You don’t bleed. But your ego does.”
A villager gasps. Silverleaf steps closer, a hand on his blade.
Escher’s disguise holds, but only technically. His shadow lengthens unnaturally. The candlelight no longer reflects in his eyes. He straightens, too erect, too precise.
IREENA: (softly, uncertain) “What just happened?”
GREEGAN: (quiet, gripping the doorframe) “He slipped.”
SILVERLEAF: (to Felonious) “He’s not preaching. He’s scouting.”
CLARION: “There’s blood under the floorboards. And now it’s listening.”
Escher exhales through his nose, recovering fast.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (back to the crowd) “Philosophy must provoke. I thank you all for enduring these... provocations.”
His hand moves to extinguish the lantern—ending the lecture, not the game.
🎭 Scene: “The Fracture Beneath the Smile” – Act II, Morning Continued
INT. OLD APOTHECARY – MOMENT BEFORE DEPARTURE
The bookshelves tremble as Escher—still disguised as Eiphell—moves to shutter the windows, snuff the lanterns, and usher the crowd out. The room has turned; where once there was velvet ease, now there is stone and splinters.
FELONIOUS: (staying seated, voice barbed) “Packing up already? Not staying to defend your thesis, professor?”
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (stiffly) “I find this village is… no longer receptive to truth.”
FELONIOUS: (leans back) ““Ah, that’s not it. It’s just that lies collapse faster when they pretend to be poetry.”
Escher pauses. The air sharpens.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (low, unthinking) “You think poetry matters here? When all they’ve built is graves? When everything Strahd gave is wasted by peasants with pitchforks and hope?”
The words fall like knives. Silverleaf lifts her gaze slowly. Felonious doesn’t blink.
FELONIOUS: (murmurs) “Strahd gave, did he?”
Escher realizes his slip too late. He turns away, voice tighter now, fingers curling around the edge of a shelf.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (cold) “They lost what they were. I’ll take what they left behind.”
He extinguishes the lantern with a flick of the wrist. For a moment, the light fades—but not before the truth gleams through his mask.
CLARION (O.S.): (quietly) “Loss… and conquer.”
Escher reaches into his coat and withdraws a pocketwatch—ornate, old, buzzing faintly. He clicks it open, and the second hand begins stuttering. The room distorts subtly. Time lurches.
EIPHELL (ESCHER): (low) “This shop was never mine. It was borrowed from a world too slow to notice theft.”
As everyone reels from the temporal shift, he steps backward into the darkened pantry wall—and vanishes with a shimmer, leaving behind only the scent of rosewater and ozone.
🎭 Scene: “The Fracture Beneath the Smile” – Act II, Morning Concluded
EXT. MISTY STREET OUTSIDE THE APOTHECARY – JUST AFTER ESCHER’S EXIT
Fleetwood blinks at the closed door, the final flicker of arcane energy still dancing in the corner of his vision. The tension dissolves like steam—leaving awkward silence in its wake.
FLEETWOOD: (scratching his head) “What… was that?”
FELONIOUS: (grinning, eyes still narrowed) “Not as scary as the last one. Lotta talk, little teeth.”
Before the moment can settle, a familiar voice cuts through.
ARABELLE: (trotting up with a small pouch of herbs and zero concern) “What was that? I got bored. Did I miss anything that wasn’t a lecture?”
SILVERLEAF: (dry) “A man tried to rewrite Barovia with metaphor.”
ARABELLE: (rolls her eyes) “Again?”
Felonious chuckles, brushing dust from his sleeve. Kala tightens the strap on her blade, her expression unreadable. The party begins drifting back into motion, though the air hums with lingering questions.
🎭 Scene: “Whispers at the North Gate” – Act III, Late Morning
EXT. WINDING ROAD TO THE ABBEY – MIST-CLAD PATHWAY
Background Music Shifts: Abbey of Saint Markovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Choral Music | Loop
The path curls like a serpent through the frost-laced hills, cobblestones slick with dew and the smell of pine. Ravens stir overhead, silent watchers, while the Abbey looms—a cathedral of ancient bone and weathered stone—atop the cliff like a forgotten oath.
The party crests the final turn. Silence deepens. Kala squints ahead, hand resting on the hilt of her blade. Fleetwood mutters something about altitude and expectations. Arabelle tosses a pebble off the cliffside, watching it tumble into mist.
FELONIOUS: (dryly) “Nothing says ‘impending dread’ like a holy site that forgot holiness.”
They reach the North Gate—an ironbound threshold carved with sigils now eroded to nonsense. There, sprawled beneath the archway on mildewed blankets, lie two figures: Otto and Zygfrek, twisted of limb and half-asleep, their snores dueling in off-tempo rhythm.
Background Music Shifts: Clovin’s Viol | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Solo Viola Background Music | Loop
Otto, his jaw protruding like a boar’s, twitches in his dreams. Zygfrek, broad and flat-eyed, clutches a wine skin with the intensity of a lover.
SILVERLEAF: (softly) “Guard duty?”
ARABELLE: (peering) “They’re… unique. Like stew poured into a mold that wasn’t quite ready.”
Felonious steps forward, voice raised just a touch too much.
FELONIOUS: “Good morning! Lovely day for being unconscious!”
Zygfrek (Javier Botet) grunts, snorts once—then slaps Otto, who jolts upright in a flurry of limbs and confusion. Otto (Andy Serkis) blinks, sees the party, and smiles broadly, revealing a mouth full of misaligned teeth and pure delight.
OTTO: (grinning) “Visitors! You look unbroken!”
ZYGFREK: (mumbling) “Don’t let ‘em in. Unless they have soup.”
FLEETWOOD: (confused whisper) “Is that the password?”
Otto waves dramatically toward the gates, then frowns as if remembering protocol from a manual he once chewed on.
OTTO: “Uh. Wait here. Maybe. Or come in. But don’t scream. That’s for the Abbey to do.”
As the gates creak open, the mist spills in—not from outside, but from within.
🏰 Scene: “Pilgrims and Patchwork Souls” – Act III, Midday
EXT. ABBEY OF ST. MARKOVIA – GRAVEYARD PATH
The mist clings low to the soil, dampening the earth and curling around crooked headstones as the party is escorted down a narrow path flanked by mausoleums and twisted iron. Statues of mourning angels watch with blind eyes, their wings pitted by rain and time.
Felonious walks with reserved tension, scanning the graveyard as though each tomb whispers. Fleetwood, ever relaxed, hums a jaunty tune, half-mocking the solemnity, while Silverleaf watches the Mongrelfolk with silent fascination.
From behind a chipped column, a pale figure (Paul Dano) waddles forward. His legs are stubby and his right arm is avian—feathered and twitching—but he balances precariously on hooves. A wine jug swings at his hip, nearly as large as his torso.
CLOVIN BELVIEW: (voice high, nasal) “Well isn’t this a little parade of irresponsibility?”
Otto and Zygfrek stop mid-step, suddenly sheepish.
OTTO: “We brought guests! Very moral-looking!”
ZYGFREK: “They asked nicely. Mostly.”
CLOVIN: “You were guarding, you toads in a trench coat! Not recruiting!”
He narrows his one good eye at the newcomers.
CLOVIN (CONT’D): “Who are you, and why should I care?”
FLEETWOOD: “Looking for Ezmerelda. Heard she liked the view from this haunted hilltop.”
Otto and Zygfrek both nod in sync, each jabbing a thumb toward the party.
ZYGFREK: “Felonious. Fleetwood. Silverleaf. They’re not screaming. That’s a good sign.”
Clovin squints, snorts, and snatches a swig from his jug.
CLOVIN: “Fine. If Ezmerelda doesn’t skin you, the Abbot will. Follow me.”
EXT. ABBEY COURTYARD – CONTINUOUS
The courtyard unfolds like a memory half-remembered—garden plots overgrown with monkshood and nightshade, empty fountains where moss gurgles instead of water. A group of Mongrelfolk—one with butterfly wings, another with a dog’s bark for a cough—wave shyly from beneath a broken arch.
INT. ABBEY – GREAT HALL
Clovin leads them past a massive oaken door that groans open like a creature long asleep. Candles float above the floor on unseen currents. The great hall is lined with faded frescoes and broken relics. At its center stands The Abbot—tall, radiant, not wholly human. His robes shimmer faintly, and his eyes betray a terrible mercy.
Background Music shifts: The Abbot | Unofficial Curse of Strahd OST | 1h Dark Orchestral & Piano Theme Music | Loop
He turns to greet them as though he’d known they were coming since the day they were born.
THE ABBOT: “You seek answers. But I sense wounds. Come—let me see what you carry.”
🎭 Scene: “Patients of the Divine Scalpel” – Act III, Inside the Abbey
INT. ABBEY – GREAT HALL
Stone arches rise like cathedral ribs overhead. Sunlight bleeds through stained glass, casting fractured halos onto the floor.
FLEETWOOD: (his voice even, almost casual) “My wounds are my own.”
He pauses, brushing one hand over a faded mark on his bracer.
FLEETWOOD (cont’d): “Where’s Ezmerelda?”
THE ABBOT: (serene, folding his hands) “I believe she wanders the East Wing today. But her spirit is as restless as yours—she does not stay anywhere long.”
Behind him, a mongrelfolk sweeps the floor with a broom made of twigs and bent silverware, humming off-key.
CLARION: (gaze lingering on the hallway figures) : “These... they were your patients?”
THE ABBOT: (sad smile) “They still are. Once, a family arrived here—wasting away before their lives truly began. Their bones frail, their flesh already retreating. A blight of lineage, not contagion.”
The party listens as he walks slowly across the hall, trailing memory like incense.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “I could not heal them—not in the usual sense. So I did what mercy allowed.”
A pause. He turns toward a tall mongrelfolk arranging dried herbs—his knees unmistakably canine, his hands gnarled with scaled skin.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “I replaced what failed. Not with perfect limbs… but enduring ones. The eye of a lynx, the gait of a dog, the calm of a serpent’s pulse.”
CLARION: (gently, cautiously) “And their minds?”
THE ABBOT: “Ah. The illness made them soft, vulnerable. My craft made them confused. But still—they live. And every day, I refine the method. Someday, I will make them whole.”
A mongrelfolk nearby giggles and spills a jar of lavender into a crate of onions. Silverleaf tilts her head, watching the chaos like a tapestry fraying at the edge.
FELONIOUS: (quietly, to Fleetwood) “You ever see hope stitched into regret that tightly?”
FLEETWOOD: “Plenty. But never in scales.”
🌑 Scene: “Echoes of Grace” – Act V, Abbey of Saint Markovia
INT. ABBEY – CHAMBER OF VIGILS
The air smells of cedar and old vellum. Clarion stands before the Abbot, her silhouette framed in the flickering torchlight. Behind her, statues of saints watch with sightless eyes.
CLARION: (soft, deliberate) “Tell me about this place. What truth lies beneath these stones?”
The Abbot exhales, voice laced with reverence and weariness.
THE ABBOT: “Saint Markovia... she walked in grace when Strahd walked in conquest.”
He gestures toward an alcove where a weathered mural depicts a woman in radiant vestments fending off shadows.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “Before she saw her thirtieth year, she had already defied tyrants and silenced demons. Her fire was gentle, but it was still fire.”
CLARION: “She built this Abbey herself?”
THE ABBOT: “Yes. After conflict with Saint Andral—the Most High Priest—she sought peace in the wilderness. Here she founded a haven... a convent, a hospital, a sanctuary of light.”
He walks to a niche carved into the wall, where a faded tapestry shows a host of pilgrims ascending a sun-drenched hill.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “But Strahd’s curse infected the land. She could not let it stand. So she marched.”
A long silence follows.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “She and her disciples perished at Ravenloft. What remains here is grief woven into stone... and the whispers of those who lost their way.”
Clarion’s gaze hardens.
CLARION: “And this ‘sword of sunlight’? Madam Eva spoke of it.”
THE ABBOT: (chuckles softly, shaking his head) “A charming tale. But I’ve dwelled in Barovia longer than most. No sword burns with sunlight here. Only hope... or illusions of it.”
Clarion’s brow furrows. Fleetwood leans against the doorframe, watching silently. Ireena glances at Clarion, her expression grim and thoughtful.
CLARION: (low, murmured) “Then perhaps it’s hope he fears.”
👰 Scene: “Unveiling Grace” – Act VI, Abbey of Saint Markovia
INT. ABBEY – INNER CLOISTER
Background Music shifts: Vasilka | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
Candles line the walls in symmetrical reverence. A soft choir of mongrelfolk hums somewhere distant, off-pitch and echoing. The Abbot stands beside a tall set of double doors carved with iconography of saints and beasts entwined in vines.
THE ABBOT: (serene, hands folded)
“You have seen suffering in this place… but I would show you something born of hope.”
He gestures, and the doors groan open. Inside stands VASILKA (Anya Taylor-Joy)—a towering figure clad in an ivory gown, her movements slow and graceful, though tinged with stiffness. Her skin is pale and unmarred, but her eyes lack the weight of a soul.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “She is Vasilka. My greatest work. My gift to the Lord of Barovia.”
The party registers the implication. A bride. But made, not born.
CLARION: (murmured, half to herself) “She’s constructed…”
THE ABBOT: (conversational, almost proud) “A mosaic of salvation. I crafted her from the finest remnants of the pure-hearted who sought sanctuary here. Each limb chosen for symmetry. Each feature sculpted for serenity. Her voice, when she speaks, will be the echo of grace itself.”
Fleetwood frowns. Ireena watches closely, discomfort blooming behind her ribs.
IREENA: “And does she… live?”
THE ABBOT: “She endures. Her soul, not yet awakened, sleeps beneath the surface. But soon—very soon—it shall rise. And she shall bring light even to Ravenloft.”
VASILKA bows, a movement so perfect it feels rehearsed. Her eyes do not meet theirs. Clarion’s jaw sets slightly.
CLARION: “How will Strahd respond to this ‘gift’?”
THE ABBOT: (amused) “A child fears the light until it warms him. He may resist. But he will not refuse.”
🔪 Scene: “A Heart Too Pure” – Act VII, Abbey of Saint Markovia
INT. ABBEY – CLOISTER BALCONY
Moonlight spills over cracked stone railings. Below, Vasilka stands motionless in the garden, framed by thorns and frost. Felonious and Clarion lean against the balustrade. The Abbot is nearby, arranging petals with meticulous care.
FELONIOUS: (quiet, eyes narrowed) “You feel it too, don’t you?”
CLARION: (her gaze distant, fixed on Vasilka) “I feel... awe. And dread. Like something holy was melted and remade.”
FELONIOUS: (lowers his voice) “He asked for Anna Krezkov’s heart.”
Clarion stiffens slightly.
FELONIOUS (cont’d): “I didn’t know why. Politics, power... But no. He wants it for her.”
He gestures subtly toward Vasilka, whose gown catches the light like an immaculate shroud.
CLARION: (whispers) “Why Anna?”
FELONIOUS
“I don’t know. Maybe her heart sings louder. Maybe it’s just… clean.”
The Abbot turns momentarily, smiling with vacant warmth. Felonious responds with an equally bland nod, then leans closer to Clarion as the Abbot resumes his work.
FELONIOUS (cont’d): (under his breath) “You’re drawn to him. To this place. That’s fine. But don’t let fascination blind you.”
CLARION: (doesn’t look at him, voice barely audible) “It hasn’t.”
Felonious watches her, uncertain if that’s truth or armor.
🎭 Scene: “Lessons in Love” – Act VIII, Abbey of Saint Markovia
INT. ABBEY – VESTIBULE OF PETALS
The scent of roses hangs thick, disguising the decay beneath. Vasilka stands like a statue in bridal white, head tilted in quiet obedience. The Abbot’s robes trail behind him as he turns to the party, voice echoing with celestial gentleness.
THE ABBOT: “I have studied love—as devotion, sacrifice, illumination. Yet mortal love… the tangle between man and woman… eludes me.”
He steps closer to Vasilka, who does not flinch.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “For her to truly bind with Strahd, she must understand this mystery. I ask you—teach her. Let her learn what it means to love, irrational and true.”
A beat of silence. Clarion steps forward instinctively, eyes full of conflicted empathy.
CLARION: “If there’s hope that she can feel, then I’ll—”
FELONIOUS: (cutting in, cool and sharp) “On one condition.”
The room stills. The Abbot’s gaze lingers on Felonious, unreadable but not without warning.
FELONIOUS (cont’d): “You abandon your claim to Anna Krezkova’s heart. It is not yours to take.”
A flicker crosses the Abbot’s perfect face. His voice remains smooth, but there’s a chisel beneath it.
THE ABBOT: “I cannot. Her heart is the key. The final piece. Vasilka must be whole. Anna’s purity... her love... it completes the design.”
SILVERLEAF: (quietly, to Fleetwood) “He’s not building a bride. He’s building redemption.”
FLEETWOOD: (murmuring) “Or obsession in silk.”
CLARION, torn between compassion and conscience, lowers her gaze. Vasilka watches her, silent—learning already, perhaps not the lessons the Abbot intended.
THE ABBOT: “If you will not teach her, I will find another way. But I urge you... help me teach her how to love. Not just to be loved.”
The camera moves out, to show the entire party, Vasilka, the Abbot, and the Mongrelfolk watching in the shadows.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits play over: Vasilka | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
