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:
Anya Taylor-Joy as Vaskilka
Doug Jones as The Flesh Golem
Morena Baccarin as Ezmerelda d’Avenir
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
🔮 Scene: “The Door Between” – Act XXVI, Abbey East Wing Foyer
INT. FOYER – A QUIET STRETCH OF STONE BETWEEN WINGS OF PURPOSE
Background Music: Abbey of Saint Markovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Choral Music | Loop
With a resonant creak that sounds more ceremonial than mundane, the Abbot opens the great wooden door leading into the East Hall’s foyer. The hinges groan in protest—as if unwilling to usher guests into what waits beyond.
Beyond the threshold, the space looms. Dim light spills in from high, narrow windows, casting long shadows that seem to avoid the figure at its center.
It stands like a sentinel misplaced by time—towering, over seven feet tall, with shoulders thick enough to eclipse the light behind it. (Portrayed by Doug Jones) The body is a grotesque tapestry: patches of skin sewn with thick, uneven thread, stitched in jagged angles and dark lines that resemble the frantic path of a mad geographer. The hues of its flesh vary wildly—some ruddy and flushed with youth, others pale as parchment or bruised with age. Some areas look freshly stretched across the muscle, others mottled and ancient.
Tension radiates from its build. Muscle bulges unnaturally beneath the taut surface, and several seams threaten to split, the stitching straining to keep defiance from becoming disaster.
Its face is unreadable, carved in asymmetry. The sockets where eyes should be are instead filled with dark, glassy orbs, opaque and unreflective—mirrors to nothing, absorbing all. They hold no light, only a silence so complete it feels deliberate.
Its arms hang low, elbows slightly bowed as though anticipating use. Each finger elongates into something too sharp, too segmented—clawed, jagged nails extending like the talons of something meant to tear, not touch.
The Abbot doesn’t flinch. He speaks with quiet familiarity.
THE ABBOT: “Escort our guests to Miss d’Avenir’s chambers.”
The golem does not speak. It does not nod. But it turns smoothly, weight moving with eerie grace, and pauses, like a monument temporarily animated. It waits—for footsteps, for decisions.
The air in the foyer seems denser than before. Even the silence has a shape to it now.
🎭 Scene: “What Remains of Will” – Act XXVII, Foyer Tension
GREEGAN: (eyeing the towering construct) “Can he… understand us?”
The golem does not move. Does not blink. Its glassy eyes remain fixed on nothing, yet feel profoundly pointed. The silence stretches just slightly too long.
Behind Greegan, the Abbot offers a quiet answer, voice laced with a strange blend of reverence and regret.
THE ABBOT: “He understands enough.”
He steps past Greegan, fingers briefly brushing the patchwork shoulder with the casual intimacy of a sculptor admiring his creation.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “He was not built for discourse, but for duty. He listens. He learns… in ways that are not speech. Emotion eludes him, perhaps. But intent? That, he follows.”
The golem slowly shifts its weight—not threatening, not mechanical, just eerily present. It turns again toward the hallway, the skin along its back straining over thick muscle, stitches pulled taut like string on a broken marionette.
CLARION: (softly, almost to herself) “I wonder what kind of silence he keeps.”
Fleetwood looks from the golem to the Abbot, then back to the party. The hallway yawns ahead, Ezmerelda waiting somewhere beyond this mute sentinel.
FLEETWOOD: (aside to Greegan) “Maybe he understands more than we’re ready for.”
🕯️ Scene: “The Golem’s Path” – Act XXVIII, Abbey East Wing
INT. EAST WING – NARROW PASSAGES, SHADOWS STITCHED WITH QUIET PURPOSE
The Abbot’s departure is marked by a flap of robes and the echo of fading sandals. His presence drains from the space like heat leaving stone. Left behind is the golem—a creature shaped by intention, but not desire.
It turns without command, gliding toward the corridor with the slow certainty of something that does not question. The players follow, boots scuffing against ancient stone.
Passing the Madhouse, the atmosphere curdles—muffled cries, scraping metal, and incoherent prayer seep through the walls. The golem does not flinch. It moves forward as though deaf to suffering, or perhaps too familiar with it to notice.
Ascending toward the Upstairs Office, the stairwell narrows and the air grows colder. Dust flurries in the passage like displaced memory. The golem’s bulk barely clears the walls, its shoulders hunched to fit, but the movement remains graceful in its grotesquerie.
At the Curtain Wall, the golem halts. The door opens with surprising delicacy for a creature of such brute form. Then it lifts a single arm—long fingers outstretched—and points silently toward the Barracks.
No words. No gestures of welcome. Just direction.
It does not cross the threshold. Something—perhaps programming, perhaps ritual—keeps it tethered to the East Wing, like a chained memory. Its glass eyes do not follow. Its limbs do not twitch. It simply waits, unmoving, like a sentinel who has already seen too much to care what lies beyond.
🔻 Scene: “Sanctum in the Rot” – Act XXX, S19 Barracks
INT. BARRACKS – DECAYED CHAMBER, DIVIDED BY PURPOSE AND STUBBORN HOPE
Background Music Shifts: Ezmerelda | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Theme Music | Loop
The door opens with a sigh, revealing a forgotten chamber half-consumed by neglect. The scent of mold clings to the air—wet stone, rot, and disuse—but there is a stubborn cleanness at its heart.
At the center, like a defiant island in a dying sea, a ten-foot-square patch purged of mold gleams faintly in the gloom. An unrolled bedroll, weathered but meticulous, marks the edge of a temporary camp. Nearby, a worn leather backpack slumps, patched and scarred with long travel. Three sheathed weapons—a rapier, a silvered short sword, and what looks like a hand axe—lie within arm’s reach, each lovingly oiled, each ready.
Beside them sprawls the chalk circle—nearly ten feet in diameter. Unfinished, yet precise, its edge trembles with intention. A five-pointed star has been carefully inscribed within it. Stray lines branch outward, half-erased, as if revised too many times by someone who doesn’t forgive herself easily.
Ezmerelda d’Avenir (Morena Baccarin) crouches there, wrist tilted awkwardly, a snapped piece of chalk clenched in one hand, her knuckles white. Her olive skin gleams faintly in the dim, beads of sweat clinging to her brow. Her frizzy black hair, untamed but pulled back by a wide orange-red headband, frames eyes sharp enough to cut through dusk.
She wears a mud-stained longcoat, weather-beaten and faded to rust in places. Beneath it, studded leather armor glints, catching the gloom like defiance. Her boots are mismatched—one brown, nondescript, the other a strange, dull metallic copper, flecked as if it’s been dipped in blood once too often.
Her eyes dart up at the sound. She doesn’t rise. Doesn’t reach for her blades. She simply glares at the chalk, cursing under her breath as though the circle itself had betrayed her.
FELONIOUS gasps under his breath, as if he’s just seen the most beautiful thing he can imagine. Greegan rolls his eyes.
EZMERELDA: (without looking up) “If you’ve come to mock my symmetry, wait until the star’s complete.”
🎭 Scene: “Resonance of Old Flames” – Act XXXI, Barracks Reunion
Ezmerelda doesn’t rise. Her posture remains crouched, one boot braced against the ground, frizzy hair clinging to her brow in spite of the headband. But her gaze shifts with precision—sharp as cut obsidian—as the party crosses her threshold.
She takes in each face, her expression flickering with calculation until it softens just enough to confirm recognition. The broken chalk is set down with casual irritation.
EZMERELDA: (dryly) “Judging by the noise you made coming up here, I assume you haven’t come to kill me.”
A pause.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “And unless Bargle finally put on your faces and learned some manners… I suppose this is a reunion.”
She finally stands, stretching with a wince and brushing chalk dust from her coat. The mismatched boots scuff across the circle’s outer ring.
EZMERELDA: (to Clarion) “You still breathing soft as ever, healer. And Fleetwood—how’s that shield treating your sarcasm?”
She tosses a crooked grin at Greegan.
EZMERELDA: (to Greegan) “Flower garland? You getting sentimental or just showing off your smuggling skills?”
Her eyes flick once toward the flesh golem still stationed at the doorway, its motionless stance now interrupted by the slight bloom of wilted petals around its neck.
EZMERELDA: (quietly) “...She left that for him?”
She doesn’t ask more. Doesn’t let silence linger too long. Instead, she gestures to the bedroll.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “Well, you found me. What now? Come to trade rumors, or drag me into another mess with knives and dead names?”
🌫️ Scene: “The Wolves Depart at Dusk” – Act XXXII, Barracks Briefing
Ezmerelda listens with arms crossed, boots planted in defiant symmetry against the half-scribed chalk circle. When Fleetwood finishes speaking, she exhales through her teeth—sharp, deliberate. Her gaze flicks to each of them, lingering longest on the flower-draped sentinel still visible through the slightly ajar door.
EZMERELDA: “So we’re chasing a boy into the jaws of a werewolf den. Barovia never sleeps, does it?”
She stalks to the backpack near her bedroll, kneels, and withdraws a folded parchment with weathered edges. As she speaks, she spreads it across a flat stone—a crude topographical sketch of the mountains north of Lake Baratok.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “Three nights ago, I finally locked down Ilya’s location. A cave near the base of a spur just northwest of the lake. I’d bet it was once a burial chamber or temple—the spiritual residue there nearly fried me when I reached out. But he’s alive, or at least he was when I saw him.”
She hesitates, then jabs a finger at the map, pressing it hard enough to dent the surface.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “But the wolves nest there now. All the usual signs—claw marks, old bones, territorial wards. I tried going myself. Got halfway before my boot caught a trip line. That copper one’s new.”
She pauses again, brushing hair from her brow, her tone darkening.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “I bagged one of them. Fast little bastard. Didn’t talk much, but he said Strahd’s letting the pack range beyond the Mists—like… a gift. They leave tomorrow at dusk. I don’t know how long they’ll be gone—twelve hours? Twelve days? But if you want to get Ilya out, that night is your window.”
Her hand circles the star in chalk absentmindedly.
EZMERELDA: (softly) “Because if he’s not dead, he’s dreaming. And Barovia isn’t kind to sleepers.”
🔮 Scene: “The Spirits Remember” – Act XXXIII, Circle of the Forgotten
Ezmerelda crosses her arms, boots planted within the unfinished star. Her gaze flicks toward the open door as if measuring how much time remains before the Abbey swallows them whole again.
EZMERELDA: “I’ll go with you. I want that boy safe as much as you do.”
She lets the moment hang for just a breath.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “But first—we need to quiet what howls inside this Abbey. The dead here don’t sleep. Not peacefully.”
She gestures to the chalk circle—a five-pointed star inked in ash and intention. Half-complete. Half-begging.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “This? This is the barrier. The net. I’ve prepared it to call them—not all of them, just the ones who might speak rather than scream. But I need a medium strong enough to hold back the rot. And I need witnesses.”
Her tone shifts—less cynical, more sacred.
EZMERELDA (cont’d): “A seance. Tonight. Here. I want their truths before I step into another monster’s den. I want to understand the Abbey’s madness before it walks behind me in wolfskin.”
Clarion steps forward first, gaze solemn.
CLARION: “You’re not wrong. Pain without voice turns into something else. We’ll help.”
Fleetwood shifts, then nods.
FLEETWOOD: “Let’s get this place to talk.”
Greegan sighs, rolling his eyes but unsheathing a dagger and flicking it once.
GREEGAN: “If I get possessed, someone owes me ale.”
Felonious doesn’t speak, but sets his staff against the floor with slow deliberation.
✨ Scene: “Unquiet Geometry” – Prelude to the Seance
Felonious stands just beyond the chalk, staff idle but mind electric. His eyes follow Ezmerelda not with skepticism, but with something older—recognition, perhaps. Her hand drags the final stroke through ash, and he exhales as if remembering a lesson long buried.
FELONIOUS: “The pattern’s right. Almost.”
Ezmerelda arches a brow, but says nothing. She senses the shift, the weight of presence in the circle.
Ireena, brushing dust from the hem of her skirt, leans toward Greegan’s shoulder with a sideways smirk. Her voice is low—intimate without invitation.
IREENA: “Spirits stir in geometry… and jealousy.”
Greegan snorts but doesn’t respond, watching Felonious now with narrowed eyes.
Then Arabelle—silent, small—steps forward. She doesn’t speak. Her hand moves to the star’s inner point and adjusts it by half a width, smoothing a jagged edge no one else noticed.
Ezmerelda pauses. Nods once.
EZMERELDA: “…Then we’re ready.”
She kneels within the circle and sets the candle.
EZMERELDA: “One for lament. One for defiance. One for truth.”
🌫️ Scene: “Voices Beneath the Stone” – The Seance Commences
Background Music Shifts: Tarokka Card Reading | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Mysterious Music | Loop
As Ezmerelda’s whisper falls into silence, the glow from the pentagram pulses once—soft, then brighter—before stabilizing into a steady radiance. Each flame surrounding the circle flickers unnaturally, casting elongated shadows that stretch and twist across the chamber walls like reaching arms.
Felonious tightens his grip on the joined hands, his breath steady but deliberate, his eyes unfocused—seeing beyond. From somewhere deeper in the Abbey, a faint clang echoes—metal on metal, perhaps. Unbidden.
Then: a whisper not from Ezmerelda’s lips.
DARK POWERS: “He wears the skin of mercy... but bleeds absolution.”
The voice is not quite masculine or feminine—it slithers between tones like smoke. It is not one voice, but many speaking in layered unison. The circle holds, but the temperature drops again. Ice crusts along the edge of the sigil.
Arabelle’s eyes widen slightly. She leans toward the source, her lips unmoving, her head tilted in concentration.
Greegan instinctively reaches for a blade that isn’t there.
Ezmerelda, brow damp but unwavering, speaks again with calm urgency.
EZMERELDA: “Stains can be burned away. Truth must be named. We ask again: how might the Abbot be made whole?”
Another pause. Then the candles flare violet for a breath.
DARK POWERS: “He keeps their bones. Their names. Their peace. One must return what was taken. But not without sacrifice.”
Clarion’s breath catches. The hum deepens, resonating now in the chests of those seated, vibrating with memory. Ireena’s gaze hardens.
🕯️ Scene: “The Tarot of the Departed” – Echoes Within the Circle
The cards do not move by Ezmerelda’s hand. Instead, each flips with a gentle snap, as if guided by a breeze only the dead can feel. The silver light flickers—never wild, but precise—and the sigil remains intact, barely pulsing as revelations unfurl.
Ezmerelda speaks softly, eyes half-lidded.
“The questions will be asked, but the answers… are not always gentle.”
EZMERELDA: “Who are you?”
Cards Drawn: Priest (face-down), Missionary (face-down), Shepherd
ARABELLE: (Eyes distant, before Ezmerelda can react) “A guide turned silent. Forgotten roles. Perhaps a fractured soul now bound in watchfulness.”
EZMERELDA: “Are you Saint Markovia?”
Cards Drawn: Diviner (face up)
ARABELLE: “Yes—one who sees truths, holds wisdom beyond life’s veil.”
EZMERELDA: “Who is the Abbot?”
Cards Drawn: Healer (face-down), Broken One
ARABELLE: “Once a healer, now shattered. A fall from grace, hidden mercy eclipsed by madness.”
EZMERELDA: “What happened to the Abbot?”
Cards Drawn: Marionette, Enchanter
ARABELLE: “Manipulated. Enchanted. Made to serve a will not his own—or perhaps one corrupted by his own desire.”
EZMERELDA: “How can we restore the Abbot?”
Cards Drawn: Artifact
ARABELLE: “There is an item, sacred or cursed, which holds the power to cleanse or shatter further.”
EZMERELDA: “What does the artifact do?”
Cards Drawn: Healer
ARABELLE: “It can heal—if wielded with truth. It mends only what is willing to be restored.”
EZMERELDA: “Where is the artifact?”
Cards Drawn: Darklord, Donjon
ARABELLE: “In the clutches of tyranny and confinement. Possibly guarded, or imprisoned—deep within Strahd’s reach or an oubliette of spiritual weight.”
EZMERELDA: “How do we use it?”
Cards Drawn: Warrior, Executioner
ARABELLE: “Action must be decisive. Sacrificial. To restore, one must fight—and perhaps kill. It is not passive redemption.”
Who must die?
Broken One
The Abbot. Unless redemption transforms him… he must fall.
Ezmerelda looks up, shadows playing across her features.
EZMERELDA: “They were once many. Now they speak as one. Their truth is sharp as glass… but honest.”
She gathers the cards slowly, reverently, leaving only the Broken One turned face-up at the circle’s center.
Felonious exhales.
FELONIOUS: “This path isn’t mercy—it’s trial.”
Arabelle doesn’t flinch, but her eyes settle on the Broken One as if reading a sorrow she already knew.
🎭 Scene: “Ashes of Gesture” – Act XXXIV, Return to the Main Hall
The party steps once more into the light and solemn hush of the Abbey’s main hall. Behind them, the golem remains at its post—still adorned with Vasilka’s fragile garland, a thread of wildflowers curled awkwardly across its throat like grace misplaced.
Then—the Abbot.
Background Music Shifts: The Abbot | Unofficial Curse of Strahd OST | 1h Dark Orchestral & Piano Theme Music | Loop
He welcomes Ezmerelda like a favored parishioner, his serenity practiced, lips parting in soft benedictions and quiet warmth.
He addresses the others with polite reverence—until his gaze lands upon the garland.
There’s a subtle shift in his aura—stillness sharpened into disdain. A cold flicker dances behind his eyes as he steps toward the flesh golem, examining it not with concern, but with disappointed scrutiny.
THE ABBOT: (serene, hollow) “Who gave this… folly?”
GREEGAN: (too quick, too casual) “I did. Thought he looked like he needed a little sprucing up. You know. Bit of color.”
The party holds its breath. Fleetwood winces. Ezmerelda does not blink.
THE ABBOT: (his smile returns, thin as blade edge) “Ah. Vanity. The garland is a root of pride. Decoration... ornamentation… the first steps toward ego.”
With deliberate grace, the Abbot removes the garland from the golem’s neck and walks it toward the hearth. The flowers hiss as they catch fire, curling into black smoke.
THE ABBOT (cont’d): “Such follies are unbecoming of the gods’ creations.”
The moment lingers. Something turns in Vasilka’s posture nearby—a flicker of dismay, barely masked. But she does not speak.
CLARION: (murmurs) “Mercy is also creation.”
But the Abbot does not answer.
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits play over: Tarokka Card Reading | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Mysterious Music | Loop