Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 Opening Credits: Melodic War Productions presents
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Root Awakens
A single lantern sways above Krezk’s gate, its flame unwavering in the wind. 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 tilts toward 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 like secrets, their steep roofs dusted with snow. Smoke curls from chimneys. Children peer from behind curtains. A scarecrow leans in 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, drawn by the Abbey’s shadow:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) sharpens his blade beneath a frost-covered arch, eyes fixed on the distant spires.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneels beside a coughing elder, voice low as she recounts Saint Markovia’s final stand.
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:
Anya Taylor-Joy as Vasilka
Michael Fassbender as The Abbot
Doug Jones as The Flesh Golem
🎭 Scene: “False Redemptions” – Act X, Stone Gallery of Secrets
INT. ABBEY – PRIVATE STUDY, HALF-LIT BY MOONLIGHT
Background Music: Vasilka | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Orchestral Background Music | Loop
Dust motes stir as Felonious turns a brittle page of the Tome of Strahd. Its ink seems to bleed shadows, whispering half-truths and sorrow. Ireena stands nearby, brow furrowed, voice low with hope that barely dares to speak.
IREENA: “If we teach her… If we give the Abbot what he wants… would Strahd be satisfied? Could it… lift the curse? Save Barovia?”
Felonious doesn’t answer at once. His gaze lingers on an illustration: Strahd, younger, smiling, beside a woman whose face has been scratched out.
FELONIOUS: “I don’t think so.”
The air thickens. A silence shaped like grief.
FELONIOUS (cont’d): “Strahd’s curse wasn’t born of love. It was born of envy, of rage. Of the moment he believed the world owed him more than it gave. Even if Vasilka could love—and he accepted that love—it would be a mockery of what he lost. A painted-over wound.”
IREENA: “Then what does this Abbot hope to accomplish?”
FELONIOUS: “Something divine. Or delusional. Maybe he thinks if Strahd accepts love, the heavens might forgive him. That the land will awaken from its nightmare. But... the Tome doesn’t speak of salvation. Just cycles. Repetition. A heart shattered again and again until it forgets it was ever whole.”
Fleetwood runs a finger along a cracked windowpane, watching the mist swirl below.
FLEETWOOD: “Then maybe it’s not Vasilka we need to teach... maybe it’s Strahd.”
🎭 Scene: “Of Monsters and Mongoose” – Act XI, Gallery of Wounded Statues
INT. ABBEY – A FORSAKEN HALL, LIT WITH SWAYING CENSERS
The smoke curls like questions no one wants answered. Greegan snorts, the laugh echoing through stone like a blade dragged across marble. He’s grinning, jaw wide, eyes dark.
GREEGAN: “You’d sooner teach a mongoose to love a cobra.”
Felonious doesn’t flinch. He closes the Tome, dust blooming with finality.
FELONIOUS: “Or teach a man to love the thing that killed his brother.”
A beat. The party falls into silence. Even Vasilka tilts her head at the remark, unknowingly solemn.
CLARION: “It’s not about making monsters gentle. It’s about asking if something broken can learn to feel without shattering further.”
FLEETWOOD: (sidelong to Greegan) “And how many of us aren’t broken? Maybe it’s less about who we teach, and more about what we’re still trying to believe.”
Ireena folds her arms. Her voice cuts softer than Greegan’s bark, but deeper in its aim.
IREENA: “We all want the curse lifted. But if this lesson in love is just another illusion—a trick to dress despair in lace—then maybe we need to stop playing teacher and start asking why we keep pretending we’re not students too.”
🎭 Scene: “A Bargain of Hearts” – Act XII, Chapel of Contrition
INT. ABBEY – CENTRAL NAVE, UNDER THE WATCHFUL GAZE OF SAINT MARKOVIA’S EFFIGY
The party returns, the air heavy with intent. Vasilka waits still, like the final page of a story yet to be written. The Abbot stands poised, hands folded in prayer or calculation—it’s hard to tell. Felonious steps forward. His words are not theatrical, but firm, like etchings in granite.
FELONIOUS: “I don’t know if it’s possible to teach love. I’m certainly not the best teacher.”
A pause. Clarion’s gaze drifts to Fleetwood, and then to Ireena, as if drawing courage from quiet flames.
FELONIOUS (cont’d): “But we’ll try. And you know our price.”
The Abbot’s eyes shimmer—more light than reflection. He does not nod, but he does not protest. It is the stillness of someone unwilling to bargain further, yet compelled by desperate hope.
THE ABBOT: “Then let the lesson begin. And may the heavens bless your hearts with wisdom.”
GREEGAN: (muttering) “We’ll need more than heaven. We’ll need a miracle or a bottle of wine.”
Vasilka, silent but listening, tilts her head again. She is waiting, not for instruction, but for something unseen—a feeling, a spark, a wound that bleeds meaning.
🎭 Scene: “The Shape of Love” – Act XV, The Listening Chamber
INT. ABBEY – A QUIET GALLERY, WHERE CANDLES BURN AND NOBODY SPEAKS FOR A WHILE
Vasilka watches the room—Greegan retreating behind his bravado, Fleetwood quietly questioning his worth, Clarion holding her heart steady, Felonious scanning for weakness in belief. But it’s Ireena who lingers on Greegan’s words, staring not at Vasilka but through the idea of her. His words—simple, heartfelt, flawed—echo in her thoughts.
Silverleaf exhales with something between irritation and exhaustion. The folds of her robe catch dim light like the wings of a bird too tired to fly.
SILVERLEAF: “I don’t know how to teach love either. Not the way humans do it. But I feel it. And I know it’s real.”
Her voice has the cadence of elven time—precise, unhurried, unafraid of silence between thoughts.
SILVERLEAF (cont’d): “Elves don’t fall in love quickly. It’s not fireworks and stolen glances. It’s long songs sung over decades. It’s sharing breath in the stillness. It’s knowing someone’s flaws for a hundred years and still choosing them every morning.”
Vasilka listens, quiet as snowfall.
SILVERLEAF (cont’d): “But it’s also blunt. It doesn’t need poems—it needs presence. Loyalty. A truth you walk beside, even when it limps.”
She steps a little closer, gazing not unkindly at Vasilka.
SILVERLEAF (cont’d): “You might not understand people now. I’ve spent centuries learning, and some days I still don’t. But that’s part of it. Love is choosing confusion. Because the mystery’s worth the pain.”
Ireena, still silent, slowly nods.
IREENA: (softly) “That’s… beautiful.”
Greegan half-smiles, brushing at nothing on his coat.
GREEGAN: “Thought you said you were blunt.”
SILVERLEAF: “I said I was Elven. We’re allowed poetry once every hundred years.”
🎭 Scene: “Petals and Pandemonium” – Act XVI, Sanctuary of Echoed Hearts
INT. ABBEY – INNER CHAMBER
The warmth of candlelight flickers over silent faces as Vasilka turns, clutching a wilted sprig of lavender between her fingers.
VASILKA: “Are… flowers a proper way to show one’s care?”
Clarion smiles softly. Fleetwood nods without hesitation. Greegan shrugs and mutters something about roses being overpriced but effective.
FELONIOUS: “Yes. But only if you know the person enough to pick the right kind.”
SILVERLEAF: (adds quietly) “Or grow them yourself. That matters more.”
Vasilka seems ready to speak again. Her lips part—then the room fractures.
SPLINTERING WOOD.
CHAINS.
WINGS.
A SCREAM—NOT QUITE HUMAN.
The candles extinguish in an instant gust of shadow. Dust spirals through the rafters as a crooked door slams open. There, staggering into view, comes Clovin Belview, his barrel-shaped torso heaving with panic, a cherubic head on his shoulder shrieking like a broken music box.
CLOVIN: (breathless, wild-eyed) “Marzena has escaped.”
Vasilka drops the lavender. The Abbot’s robes stir, and his expression becomes carved porcelain—serene with cracks.
THE ABBOT: (quietly) “She was not ready.”
Chains rattle somewhere deeper in the Abbey. The smell of scorched feathers and burning antiseptic rises in the air.
GREEGAN: “Who the hell is Marzena?”
SILVERLEAF: “Someone who didn’t ask for flowers.”
🎭 Scene: “Wings of the Absent” – Act XVII, The Courtyard Divide
EXT. ABBEY COURTYARD – TWILIGHT
The storm-thickened clouds ripple above the Abbey as the Abbot folds his hands, eyes distant, and says softly:
ABBOT: “Continue with her. The lesson matters more than the chase.”
Vasilka nods, but watches him with a flicker of something like longing—as if care can truly be learned by staying behind.
Clovin leads the Abbot outside. The courtyard, choked in ivy and broken statuary, feels charged with forgotten rituals. Without a word, the Abbot’s form flickers—his bones stretch and warp, feathers crown his spine, and a massive giant eagle unfurls from the silhouette of a man. He takes flight with silent urgency, wings slicing through the sky.
Clarion steps toward the exit, armor catching the dim light. Clovin touches her arm.
CLOVIN: (soft, pleading) “Please… stay in the main hall. We can’t lose too many.”
Reluctantly, she obeys, the weight of restraint pressing into her boots.
INT. ABBEY – MAIN HALL
Fleetwood leans against an old pew, scribbling something on the back of a prayer sheet with a shard of charcoal. His lips move.
FLEETWOOD: (muttering) “I could write poetry for her…”
From the shadows, Greegan snorts without lifting his head.
GREEGAN: “No, you couldn’t.”
Fleetwood bristles.
FLEETWOOD: “I once penned three stanzas about a mimic disguised as a piano. It moved people.”
GREEGAN: “It moved them to leave the tavern.”
VASILKA: (interjecting, curious) “Was the piano… in love?”
The silence that follows is full of possibility—and peculiar heartache.
🎭 Scene: “Echoes in the Hall” – Act XVIII, Petals and Poetics
Fleetwood sighs, the shard of charcoal slipping from his fingers.
FLEETWOOD: “Forget the piano. It’s not important.”
His voice sounds less like resignation and more like retreat—an artist backing away from the weight of metaphor he can’t quite bear to explain.
Greegan tilts his head, eyebrows pinched.
GREEGAN: “Could’ve fooled me. You said it moved people.” (Glances at Silverleaf, deadpan.) “Next thing he’ll say is the piano wept.”
SILVERLEAF: “Maybe it did. Sometimes mimicry makes better lovers than people.”
Vasilka looks between them, a furrow forming between her brow plates—her expression stiff but searching.
VASILKA: “Is forgetting something… how you know it wasn’t important?”
Fleetwood winces, opens his mouth—and closes it again.
CLARION: (from across the hall, eyes still on the courtyard window) “Some things don’t become important until you try to let them go.”
The chain-rattling silence returns for a moment. Outside, a speck of feathered motion streaks across the darkening sky. The eagle flies.
FLEETWOOD: (quietly, to Vasilka) “It wasn’t about the piano.”
🎭 Scene: “The Garland and the Golem” – Act XIX, Unseen Bloom
INT. ABBEY – MAIN HALL, DIM LIGHT
Fleetwood lowers his gaze, the memory of Clarion’s delight etched in the creases of his thoughts.
FLEETWOOD: “Then yes… flowers mean you care. I gave some once. She laughed—like she’d just discovered spring.”
The confession lands gently in the hush between them. Vasilka listens, nods, and then begins her story with the careful cadence of someone afraid of unraveling.
VASILKA: “There is another. A golem like me. It guards the east wing.”
She speaks as though revealing a secret she’s protected more fiercely than her own self.
VASILKA (CONT’D): “He was made before me… less perfect, they said. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t think. At least, not as I do.” (A pause) “The Abbot says seeing him would disturb me. That I shouldn’t go near. But I have.”
Her voice lowers.
VASILKA (CONT’D): “I watched him once. He stood in the shadows, always watching—but never watched in return. I think… I think he’s lonely.”
Fleetwood frowns. Greegan looks up, stirred not by pity, but perhaps recognition.
VASILKA (CONT’D): “We are siblings, in a way. Were we not both made by the same hand?”
She stands, hands hidden behind her back.
VASILKA (CONT’D): “I went to the garden. The wildflowers were everywhere, like laughter without reason. I braided them… a gift. For him.”
Fleetwood sees it now—the slight bulge of petals twisted into a fragile garland, tucked beneath the fold of her robe.
VASILKA (CONT’D): “But I haven’t given it. The Abbot would be displeased. He says it might ‘afflict my mind.’ But what if… what if kindness isn’t affliction?”
She lifts the garland slightly, like an offering no one has yet accepted.
FLEETWOOD: (softly) “And what if forgetting someone… is the greater wound?”
🎭 Scene: “Echoes of Intention” – Act XX, Fragile Threads
Fleetwood, unsettled by Vasilka’s quiet hope, turns to Felonious—stoic, cryptic, ever shadowed by the weight of his past.
FLEETWOOD: “You’ve dealt with golems before. What would one like her… brother do if offered kindness?”
Felonious doesn’t answer right away. His eyes grow distant, like he’s tracing old memories on the stone floor.
FELONIOUS: “There was one I learned of… years ago. It stood by a riverbank. A girl tossed flowers into the water—laughing, innocent.” (He folds his hands) “The golem saw beauty… and believed beautiful things belonged in the water. It… drowned her.”
The silence that follows is a hard truth—not cruel, but terribly neutral. Vasilka’s face tightens, not in fear, but in understanding.
VASILKA: “So… he misunderstood her gift.”
FELONIOUS : “He didn’t know what a gift was.”
Fleetwood rubs his temple, the memory of Clarion’s bouquet a more delicate echo than before. Greegan mutters something bitter under his breath. Silverleaf holds still, studying Vasilka.
CLARION: “But that doesn’t mean yours will. He’s not the same. And neither are you.”
FLEETWOOD: (quietly) “Maybe it’s not about what he’ll do. Maybe it’s about what she’s choosing.”
Vasilka sets the garland down—petals curling faintly at the edges.
VASILKA: “I would not throw it in the water. I would place it in his hand. If I must show care, let me show it fully.”
🎭 Scene: “Shattered Longings” – Act XXII, Wings Through the Window
INT. ABBEY – MAIN HALL, MOMENTS AFTER VASILKA’S REQUEST
Background Music shifts: Clovin’s Viol | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Solo Viola Background Music | Loop
The air barely has time to settle around Vasilka’s gift when—
CRASH!
Shards of stained glass rain like confetti from another world. Moonlight and chaos spill into the hall as a winged Mongrelfolk woman (Kathryn Hahn) hurtles through the window—bat-like, frenzied, bound.
Her wings lash at the air, uncoordinated but desperate. A heavy timber post, blackened and gnarled with old blood, drags at her ankle. The chain snaps taut, and her flight lurches to a stop like a marionette mid-spin.
MONGRELFOLK WOMAN: (screaming, tearing against the chain) “Where Cyrus!? Want Cyrus!”
Her mandibles click furiously, eyes wide with a hunger not for violence—but reunion.
Clarion instinctively draws her weapon but doesn’t raise it. Fleetwood’s face drains of color. Greegan, already half-covering the flower garland beneath his cloak, mutters:
GREEGAN: “Guess we weren’t gonna keep a low profile anyway.”
FELONIOUS: (surveying the shattered window) “She’s been kept… not housed. That post—that’s a tether. Not a prison, but a leash.”
SILVERLEAF: “Who’s Cyrus? A mate? A brother? A child?”
The Mongrelfolk shrieks again—less with menace, more with anguish.
MONGRELFOLK WOMAN: “Want Cyrus. Where Cyrus!”
Vasilka takes one slow step forward, eyes soft.
VASILKA: “She... reminds me of him. The one in the east wing. Is love also chained?”
Fleetwood looks between the weeping creature, the shattered window, and the garland tucked in Greegan’s belt. For the first time, the Abbey feels too small for its secrets.
🎭 Scene: “Shields and Shadows” – Act XXIII, Between Glass and Grace
INT. ABBEY – MAIN HALL, AMID STAINED GLASS SHARDS
Fleetwood plants himself between the frantic, winged Marzena and the rest of the party. His stance isn’t hostile—just solid. Protective. The kind of silence that only comes from instinct, not thought.
Behind him, Vasilka watches. Her eyes search not the broken window, not the screaming Mongrelfolk—but Fleetwood.
VASILKA: “This protects you.”
She touches the battered plate over his chest—dented, worn, still proud.
VASILKA (cont’d): “You… protect them. You… love them.”
Fleetwood flinches, just slightly. He turns to look at her—not with denial, but with the tired gaze of someone who’s never quite learned to talk about feelings out loud.
FLEETWOOD: “It’s not like what the Abbot means. It’s not gowns and moonlight and destiny.”
He gestures vaguely toward the chaos.
FLEETWOOD (cont’d): “But yes. I do. I love them. I fight beside them. I’d bleed for them. I already have.”
Marzena snarls from the far end, caught in chains but bristling with raw emotion. Clarion moves behind Fleetwood, calm and quiet. Greegan watches, one hand loosely gripping the hidden garland. Felonious stands still—but his eyes narrow with thought.
Vasilka folds her hands, looking at Fleetwood like he’s just shown her the cover of a book she didn’t know existed.
VASILKA: “Then love… is a kind of armor.”
Fleetwood glances toward Clarion. She doesn’t say anything—but her hand brushes his briefly, intentionally.
FLEETWOOD: “Yeah. I guess it is.”
🎭 Scene: “What Armor Can’t Hold” – Act XXIV, Hall of Shattered Glass
INT. ABBEY – MAIN HALL, STAINED GLASS BROKEN, SHADOWS STRETCHING
The winged woman thrashes—her chains rattling in protest, her cries for Cyrus echoing like an unanswered prayer. Clarion moves gently forward, eyes soft but steady. She does not raise her hands in defense, only opens them in offering.
CLARION: “You’re safe now. We’ll help you. Just… breathe.”
The Mongrelfolk freezes in mid-lurch, eyes wild, her body trembling from strain and sorrow. Clarion steps closer, her voice laced with that quiet alchemy only healers carry—empathy sharper than steel, grief drawn like poultices from forgotten wounds.
CLARION (cont’d): “Cyrus isn’t gone. The name still means something. And so do you.”
The woman whimpers—mandibles twitching—and slowly lowers to her knees, tether clinking behind her like a chain dragged from the past.
Nearby, Fleetwood speaks low to Vasilka, the chaos casting his words in gentle contrast. He taps his shield—not with pride, but caution.
FLEETWOOD: “You have to be careful with armor. It’s hard. Cold. Keeps the bad ones out…” (He hesitates, voice fraying slightly) FLEETWOOD (cont’d)
“But good people? They can’t get through either.”
Vasilka touches the dented surface, fingers light as memory.
VASILKA: “Then… should I not wear it?”
FLEETWOOD: “No. You’ll need it sometimes. We all do. But learn when to take it off. That’s the hard part.”
She stares at the shield a moment longer, as if it might teach her to feel.
Behind them, Clarion gently holds the winged woman’s hand. Her breathing slows. Her sobbing ebbs.
CLARION: (to Vasilka, quietly) “Even pain wants gentleness. And love... learns how to offer it.”
⚰️ Scene: “What We Leave Behind” – Act XXV, Abbey Courtyard & Hall
EXT. COURTYARD – SUN STRUGGLING THROUGH CLOUDS, WIND CHILLING THE FLOWER GARLAND
Background Music shifts: The Abbot | Unofficial Curse of Strahd OST | 1h Dark Orchestral & Piano Theme Music | Loop
A shadow falls swiftly—a beat of wings disturbing the hush like a sermon abruptly ended. Vasilka’s eyes dart to the garland, her face pale with guilt or dread. She does not speak.
The Abbot lands heavily. Feathers vanish as flesh reasserts itself. Human once more, he strides into the hall, robes stirring dust and broken glass. Clovin clatters in behind him, his gait uneven but eager.
THE ABBOT: “My apologies. Passion must be tempered with order.”
His voice is smooth as altar wine. Marzena’s head jerks at the sound, fresh despair rippling down her spine. Clarion starts to move toward her again, but halts as the Abbot approaches with a serenity that feels almost invasive.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “Cyrus has gone, child. He has moved on to the next stage of his journey. Perhaps you shall join him… someday.”
He reaches for the chain. Marzena’s resistance melts like wax under solemnity. She crumbles, grief overtaking her like the tide.
MARZENA: “He promised—he promised I’d come too…”
The Abbot does not reply. He places the chain in Clovin’s hands.
THE ABBOT: “The sheds will suffice. Light and air were not the balm I’d hoped.”
Clovin nods, tugging gently. Marzena stumbles forward, her sobs low and ragged, like something being torn.
As they exit into the courtyard, the Abbot turns to the party once more.
THE ABBOT: “You have offered Vasilka much. Wisdom is often a finer gift than power.”
A pause. Then, more quietly:
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “The east wing. Come. Ezmerelda is waiting.”
Walk-and-Talk Monologue (Abbot’s Tone: Gentle, Avoidant)
“Cyrus… yes. He was the patriarch, once. A torchbearer for the Belviews. Marzena loved him dearly. They all sought perfection, you see—ancestral expectations, etched into bone.
Now, Cyrus has simply continued. A step ahead. But that kind of departure… it leaves echoes. The others feel them. Loudly.
I’ve learned silence serves better than comfort. Idle gossip? Poison without flavor. Best we leave it buried.”
FADE TO BLACK:
End Credits Play Over: Abbey of Saint Markovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Choral Music | Loop
