🎬 Opening Credits: Melodic War Productions presents
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Lantern Leads
A single lantern swings from a bent iron bracket beside Argynvostholt’s shattered gate—its flame steady despite the breathless stillness. Beneath it, fragments of silver‑inlaid stone lie scattered like fallen scales. A torn banner, once bright with a dragon rampant, hangs in tatters from a rusted spearhead. A cracked memorial plaque lies half‑buried in dead leaves.
The screen exhales: BAROVIA, etched into a weather‑worn milestone.
The camera pans to a new signpost: Argynvostholt – 0.3 miles.
🕊️ 0:09–0:20 | The Dragon’s Light Extinguished
Ahead, the ruins rise—silent, skeletal, their towers broken like snapped ribs.
A stone dragon statue watches from the courtyard, its wings shattered, its gaze hollow.
Ravens circle above, their cries sharp and urgent, tracing patterns that feel like warnings.
A gust of wind knocks loose a scale‑shaped piece of masonry; it falls and cracks open, revealing a card within: The Innocent.
The mist thickens.
🚶♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Travelers Approach
The wanderers ascend the vine‑choked path toward the fallen fortress:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) walks with sword drawn, eyes fixed on the darkened windows as if expecting movement.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) strides ahead, her black hair swept back, voice low as she recounts the tale of the Silver Dragon’s last stand.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) trails her fingers along a broken stone pillar, sensing the echo of old magic.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) sketches sigils in the air; each flickers like dying candlelight before fading.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) rolls his bone dice—they clatter against a fallen shield, revealing The Artifact and The Darklord.
Ireena Kolyana (Tamsin Mackenzie) carries the spirit mirror uncovered; its surface ripples with reflected moonlight that isn’t there.
Arabelle (Cailee Spaeny) kneels beside a dragon‑shaped gargoyle, placing a raven feather in its broken jaw. 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
Tomasin Mackenzie as Ireena Kolyana
Cailee Spaeny as Arabelle
Morena Baccarin as Ezmerelda d’Avineir
With:
Tom Hiddleston as Sir Godfrey Gwylm
Jennifer Tilly as Mindora
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – GRAND HALL – CONTINUOUS
Background Music: Ruins of Argynvostholt | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Background Music | Loop
The air grows colder, not cruel, but reverent—as if stirred by memory itself.
SIR GODFREY GWILYM: (his voice lowers, threading grief with wonder) “Argynvost fell when we faced Strahd in open war… but his spirit endured. He lingered here, in shadow and echo, his presence a flickering flame beneath the stone.”
Ezmerelda crosses her arms but listens intently. Arabelle tilts her head.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “In the early years, after the Mists came, Commander Horngaard saw him in visions— not wrathful, but sorrowful. Argynvost called him to turn away from hatred. But Horngaard would not.
A gust of spectral wind moans faintly across the floor. Greegan glances toward a shattered stained glass window.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D) : “And so… the dragon fell silent. Time wore him down. Even spirits grow tired, my friends. But something stirs. When the vampire awoke again… whispers returned to the walls. Not Argynvost’s voice—not fully. But echoes. Ghosts claim to hear him in dream and haunt: murmurs of a new generation… and a final stand.”
FLEETWOOD: “You think it’s us?”
Godfrey’s stare settles on them like the weight of judgment.
SIR GODFREY: “Perhaps you are the ones he’s waited for.”
His eyes drift toward Clarion, the only one who stood at the threshold of virtue with unwavering grace. But something unsettles him. His face stiffens, voice rasping with cold recognition.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “Or perhaps not.”
A hush falls again.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “I feel the chill of amber upon you.”
Clarion pales. She clutches her holy symbol without meaning to.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “If you are pilgrims to the Amber Temple… then begone. I shall have no dealings with those who seek its corruption.”
The shadows near the rafters lengthen as if in agreement. A distant, hollow groan creaks through the mansion—either discontent or warning.
Ezmerelda steps beside Clarion, protective.
EZMERELDA: “She’s not lost. Not yet.”
Godfrey’s face gives nothing. But something behind his eyes flickers—
Not fury. Not judgment.
Just… mourning.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – GRAND HALL – NIGHT
A hush falls as Godfrey’s condemnation settles in the room like frost.
CLARION: (fearful, dismayed) “What does he mean? We’ve never been to this Amber Temple.”
Her voice trembles, just slightly—but enough to crack the silence.
FELONIOUS: (rubbing his temple, grim) “I read about it… It’s where Strahd made his pact. With… whatever they were. That’s where he became what he is. Sanguinarch. A master vampire.”
GREEGAN: (his voice cuts through the fog of denial) “Amber? Amber. The shard. That shard we found in the Durst house. Elizabeth’s journal said… it came from this temple, didn’t it?
Clarion stiffens. The others turn slowly toward her.
GREEGAN (CONT’D): “You used it. You ordered that… baby… thing to let us go. You invoked its power.”
Clarion’s eyes widen, breath catching like a snare tightening in her chest. The lanterns seem to dim around her.
She sees it now—not just the act, but the echo it left in her. How afterward, the warmth inside her cooled slightly. How trust felt like a costume she wore instead of a light she carried. Even Fleetwood, who would lay down his life for them… for her… she had doubted him.
CLARION: (horrified, whispering) “No… No.”
A tear slides down her cheek.
CLARION (CONT’D): “If I hadn’t let that touch me… Maybe I could have done better for the party. Maybe I could have done better for… Doru.”
She looks down at her healer’s bag—not as a symbol, but as a burden.
FLEETWOOD: (quietly, gently) “Clarion…”
She doesn’t lift her head.
CLARION: “I meant to save you. But I called on something I didn’t understand.”
A long pause. Even Godfrey holds back.
CLARION (CONT’D): “I still dream about it. How warm and pretty it was. The shard may be gone… But the stain is still on me.”
The wind moans faintly through Argynvostholt’s broken windows, as if mourning.
Felonious steps forward, hesitant but firm.
FELONIOUS: “Intent matters. We’ve all reached for power in the dark.”
EZMERELDA: (soft, yet defiant) “But we pulled each other back.”
Arabelle’s gaze lingers on Clarion, not with pity—but with quiet solidarity. The girl understands more than she says.
ARABELLE: “That place wants to change people. But it doesn’t get the last word.”
A moment passes. Clarion lifts her head.
CLARION: “Then help me find the right one.”
Godfrey watches her, unreadable… then finally gives the faintest nod.
SIR GODFREY GWILYM: “Perhaps not all pilgrims are lost.”
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – GRAND HALL – NIGHT
Ashen moonlight filters through fractured stained glass, pooling in pale rivulets across ancient stone. The knights’ sigils—tarnished, torn—watch silently from their perches.
SIR GODFREY GWILYM: (his voice quieter now, grave and steady) “These bindings restrain me from wandering this mansion’s depths…” (He indicates the barbed wire encircling his body) “but you are unburdened.”
He turns toward the party with a slow tilt of his head, the flickering lanternlight dancing across his spectral armor.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): I ask you to go in my place. Explore Argynvostholt. The spirits here… some still remember Argynvost’s whispers.”
CLARION: (nods, though unease flashes in her eyes) “We’ll find what we can.”
Godfrey’s hand tightens on the hilt of his sword—not in preparation, but in remembrance.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “Then you must be wary of Commander Vladimir Horngaard.”
A silence falls, thick with meaning.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D) : “He watches the upper halls. You must not let him see you. Do not speak his name. Do not give him reason to think you come for Zarovich. That... would be your undoing.”
Fleetwood frowns, tapping a finger against his jaw.
FLEETWOOD: “He’s that dangerous?”
SIR GODFREY: “In life, he was our greatest warrior. In death—he cannot be killed. Not by sword, claw, or spell. Even if the devil himself struck him down, Horngaard would rise again. A hunter that never stops.”
He pauses, his gaze drifting into shadow.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “He does not look fondly upon me now. If he believes you share my sympathies… his wrath will not wait.”
Ezmerelda squares her shoulders. Arabelle’s fingers brush her charms.
EZMERELDA: “Got it. Silence, shadows, no names.”
SIR GODFREY: “Good.”
He takes a breath he doesn’t need, then continues, voice sharpening.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D): “Not all spirits within these walls are allies. Some are locked forever in the final moments of their lives… ghosts of the war. They attack outsiders on sight.”
FELONIOUS: (raises his hand, concerned) “Can they be reasoned with?”
SIR GODFREY: “No. Their crusade cannot be undone. And weapons and spells… rarely touch them.”
ARABELLE: “Then how do we stop them?”
Godfrey leans in, voice lowering to a rasp.
SIR GODFREY: “There is one thing. Arachnids. They haunt the Ethereal realm... and the mad spirits fear them. Avoid the war-specters. And if they pursue you—pray the spiders find them first.”
He straightens.
SIR GODFREY (CONT’D):”Find what stirs Argynvost’s whispers. And return to me, if you live.”
The shadows behind him shift. Somewhere far above, a door creaks open without touch.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – EASTERN CORRIDOR – NIGHT
The party drifts in silence out of the chapel, shoes scuffing against stone as solemnity clings to their breath. Lanternlight behind them grows dim—six ghosts still whispering from their rusted iron prisons.
IREENA: (stopping, sudden realization lighting her eyes) “Wait... that amber shard. About this big… glowed?”
She gestures, hands curved. Her voice is a whisper, startled and reverent.
CLARION: (nodding, quiet) “I thought it was pretty. Still do. Only… now I wish I’d never touched it. So I wouldn’t want it anymore.”
There’s no self-pity in her tone—just a kind of haunted honesty.
IREENA: “Izek has one. I saw it while we were talking... after I found out he’s my brother. He was wearing it around his neck.”
The group stops. Greegan’s brow furrows.
GREEGAN: (grimly, half a chuckle) “Guess we don’t have to wonder about where he got that demon arm anymore.”
FELONIOUS: (glancing at Clarion, wary) “I guess not.”
Clarion flinches slightly, not from accusation but memory. She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t defend. Her hand drifts over the pouch at her hip—a reflex that finds nothing.
The air thickens. A breath of cold stirs along the corridor, dragging old dust and fresh doubt alike.
FLEETWOOD: (low, calm) “We move forward. We always have.”
Arabelle walks ahead without comment, boots tapping a steady rhythm—like she knows the only way out is through.
FADE TO:
A broken staircase, the next threshold. The house doesn’t welcome them. It waits.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – CRUMBLING STAIRWELL – NIGHT
The spiral staircase groans beneath their weight, each step threatening to crumble into the abyss below. Dust spills from old mortar. Lanternlight flickers against weathered stone carved with the faded sigils of the Order.
Clarion walks just ahead of Fleetwood, her hand brushing the wall for balance. Her voice is barely audible over the wind that hisses through the cracks.
CLARION: (whispering) “Hawk… I’m scared. I don’t want to be… that.”
She doesn’t need to say what that is. The memory of amber still coats her breath like ash.
Fleetwood’s eyes lock on hers, steady as iron.
FLEETWOOD: “Then we find a way to wash its stink off of you.”
Clarion’s steps falter for half a beat. She looks over her shoulder, searching his face.
CLARION: “And if we can’t?”
Fleetwood’s grip on his hilt tightens. The air seems to drop a few degrees as the wind stills.
FLEETWOOD: (grim) “Then I find whatever’s taken hold of you... and I convince it to let you go.”
He takes a step closer, not threatening, not gentle—just true.
FLEETWOOD (CONT’D): “With my sword.”
Clarion stares at him, eyes flickering with something between fear and fierce gratitude. The others remain silent, respectfully distant—Ezmerelda watching from the shadows, Felonious unreadable, Greegan pretending not to listen.
Above them, the stairwell yawns open into deeper ruin. Whispers stir. Memories wait.
FADE TO BLACK.
EXT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – CEMETERY – DAY
The sun cuts through the high clouds like a blade of tempered silver, spilling golden light across the valley. The party emerges from the chapel, footsteps echoing down the worn stone steps into the cemetery below. The air smells of old stone and wildflowers, but beneath it lingers something stale—like memory sealed in earth.
CEMETERY WIDE SHOT
The cemetery stretches ahead—leaning gravestones and moss-crawled fences captured in the warm embrace of afternoon. Birds flit between trees, casting fleeting shadows over the graves. In the center, proud and crumbling, stands the mausoleum, its marble warmed by the sun but cracked with time.
A stone dragon atop the entrance squints toward the horizon, its chipped wings silhouetted against a pale-blue sky.
ANGLE ON: THE PARTY
They pause near the edge of the cemetery, boots crunching dried leaves and gravel. A mild breeze stirs coats and hair. For a moment, the peace seems convincing.
GREEGAN: (scanning the landscape) “It’s quiet. Too quiet for a place like this.”
CLARION: (softly) “Looks peaceful. But it isn’t.”
FELONIOUS: “Places remember. And this one… doesn’t forget easily.”
CLOSE ON: FIVE DISTURBED GRAVES
Nestled among the orderly rows, five graves stand violently wrong. Dirt mounded in uneven heaps. Grass torn away. Coffin wood split and scattered outward—as though something had clawed its way out beneath the rising sun.
EZMERELDA: (pointing, tone sharp) “There. Those graves... they were emptied from the inside.”
The midday mist clings to the ground like forgotten breath, slinking around the graves with intent.
IREENA: (voice tense) “They came out when the sun rose. That shouldn’t be possible...”
ARABELLE: “Or maybe they waited for the light. To blend in.”
SILVERLEAF: (grim) “They’re not bound by night. They’re bound by purpose.”
A distant crow caws. The light flickers behind a passing cloud. Then—a flicker in the mausoleum. Something moves behind the cracked door. A shadow. A handprint. A whisper without sound.
FLEETWOOD: (drawing his sword slowly) “Stay close. Daylight’s no comfort here.”
They approach the mausoleum like pilgrims entering a memory—each step forward, a step deeper into truths the dead have not finished telling.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – MAUSOLEUM – DAY
Background Music Shifts: Order of the Silver Dragon | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Theme Music | Loop
The party approaches the looming structure. Silver-plated dragon wyrmling gargoyles, tarnished by time and weather, perch like silent sentinels atop the stone-tiled roof. Their wings curled inward, claws clutching ancient mortar, they gaze forever skyward—watchful but unmoving.
Before them stands a towering marble door, immaculate despite the years, cut from veined white stone. The name ARGYNVOST is carved deep into its face, the letters crisp against the erosion of centuries.
GREEGAN: (squinting at the inscription) “He built this place. And kept it standing… even now.”
FLEETWOOD: (shouldering his weight against the door) “Let’s see if time remembers how to keep us out.”
With a grunt and a surge of effort, he strains against the stone. It groans—a sound like distant thunder—and swings open with grinding reluctance. Dust rolls outward like a breath long held.
INT. MAUSOLEUM – CONTINUOUS
Darkness waits inside, thick and unmoving. Sunlight spills across the threshold like liquid gold, revealing a cold interior of raised alcoves, now empty. The scent of old stone and still air surrounds them—like a sanctuary buried in silence.
Etched into the far wall, barely catching the light: a Draconic verse.
FELONIOUS: (stepping forward, reverent) “It’s a memorial.”
He traces the script with his eyes, mouth forming the old words.
FELONIOUS (reads aloud)
““Vethka tairais di wer darastrix vur aurix Argynvost, arcaniss di Argynvostholt, thurkear di wer Ormr di Thurkear Darastrix. Here lie the bones and treasures of Argynvost, lord of Argynvostholt and founder of the Order of the Silver Dragon.”
A quiet settles around them—not peace, but respect. A weight. A legacy.
CLARION: (softly) “We walk where legends slept.”
From the shadows above, dust stirs. One of the gargoyles creaks—metal groaning as if recalling movement. But they remain inert. Harmless. Statuary.
Or so they seem.
SILVERLEAF: (flatly) “If he still guards this place… he isn’t doing it alone.”
FADE TO STILLNESS. The interior beckons. There are no bones. No treasures. Only memory, carved in stone.
MONTAGE – EXPLORING ARGYNVOSTHOLT
Background Music shifts: Ruins of Argynvostholt | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Background Music | Loop
Atmosphere: Quiet unease wrapped in daylight. The manor whispers.
🎞️ 1. RETURN TO THE CHAPEL
Dust motes drift lazily in the sunbeams cutting through shattered stained glass.
Clarion kneels, fingers brushing an old symbol of the Order.
Ireena lingers at the altar, lips moving in silent reverence.
Felonious inspects ancient candles—one flickers unnaturally and then dies.
🎞️ 2. BALLROOM – THE SPIDER ATTACK
Shadows crawl across cracked marble as the party enters the once-grand ballroom.
Greegan steps forward—and giant spiders erupt from the rafters, legs clicking, mandibles dripping.
Ezmerelda slices one midair in a brutal arc.
Greegan fends off two but takes a venomous bite to the shoulder, staggering, growling through clenched teeth.
Fleetwood drags him behind a fallen pillar, spells lighting the vaulted ceiling like storm flashes.
Ezmerelda’s blade pins the last spider to the wall, ichor trailing down the velvet drapes.
🎞️ 3. RUINED STABLES
Wind whistles through collapsed beams and splintered stalls.
Arabelle finds a rusted bridle—engraved with Argynvost’s crest.
A skeletal horse lays half-buried in straw, its hollow eyes watching.
Silverleaf notes claw marks on the door—fresh, deliberate.
Felonious uncovers charred parchment beneath a trough, too damaged to read, but smelling faintly of brimstone.
🎞️ 4. CROSSING THE ENTRANCE HALLWAY
The party retraces the grand corridor, boots echoing against cold stone.
Portraits of silver-armored knights glare down from torn frames.
Clarion’s lantern flickers. The air feels… thinner.
A chandelier above sways though there’s no breeze.
Greegan pauses to adjust his bandages, teeth gritted against venom’s ache.
🎞️ 5. ENTERING THE DEN
The room is quiet, lifeless. Shadows huddle in corners.
The hearth: dead. Not cold, not extinguished—empty.
The dragon bust atop the mantel is cracked through the snout.
Felonious kneels beside the fireplace, tracing ash that feels too recent.
Clarion whispers, “It used to speak, didn’t it?“
Ezmerelda checks the walls for hidden passages.
Fleetwood drops into a high-backed chair, watching the silent hearth. “If it’s sleeping, let’s not wake it.“
🎞️ END MONTAGE – HOLD ON THE HEARTH
The camera lingers on the cold stone, the absence of flame more ominous than any blaze. Silence reigns.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – DEN – AFTERNOON
The room remains dim despite the daylight outside. The dead hearth yawns wide, blackened and forgotten beneath a cracked dragon bust. Dust hangs unmoving in the air, caught in pale rays slanting through broken windows.
GREEGAN: (staggering slightly, pressing one hand to his bandaged shoulder) “Damn venom...”
He grimaces, but his eyes scan the room with a treasure-hunter’s instinct—drawn not by logic, but by something more primal.
His hand lands on a tarnished shelf behind the hearth. Buried beneath collapsed scrolls and a loose brick, he pulls free a silver decanter, ornate and gleaming like moonlight trapped in metal.
GREEGAN: (smirking weakly) “Now what are you hiding?”
He lifts the decanter—and everything changes.
SFX: A delighted trill, light and otherworldly, echoes in the den.
A silvery cloud erupts from the vessel, swirling upward in gleaming spirals. The dead hearth roars to life, and silver flames surge into being with a sharp whoosh, catching on nothing, burning without fuel.
From those living embers, the fire twists—shaping itself.
The silver blaze rears back and assumes a draconic form. Wisps of flame curl into horns, smoke limbs coil with quiet power, and the creature blinks into awareness with glowing eyes like molten quartz.
It opens its mouth and yawns, the sound like crackling parchment. Then it stretches—slowly, almost playfully—and unfurls its wings, sending flickers of light dancing across the stone walls.
SFX: A sound like chiming crystal, high and pure, rings from its throat. The music lingers like memory… or prophecy.
FELONIOUS: (awestruck) “It’s him… a fragment of Argynvost.”
CLARION: (softly, stepping forward) “Or what remains of his will.”
GREEGAN: (half-laughing, half-terrified) “Treasure’s worth the trouble. Sometimes.”
The draconic flame turns to the party. It watches. Waiting.
Not a warning. An invitation.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – DEN – AFTERNOON
The silver fire in the hearth ripples with playful energy, flickering in shapes half-formed and serpentine. The party stares—awed, hesitant, breath held. Then Felonious steps forward.
FELONIOUS: (murmuring) “You’re... no ordinary flame.”
He leans closer, staff angled with cautious reverence—his fingers twitch with the instinctive curiosity of a scholar.
The flame shivers—a delighted trill escaping its embered throat—then surges upward in a sudden twist.
SFX: WHOOSH – SILVER WIND
It leaves the hearth in a ribbon of silvery light and coils along Felonious’s staff, winding upward like ivy stitched from moonlight. Felonious gasps, staggering back a step, but the fire isn’t burning.
It glides up his sleeve, pauses briefly at the curve of his neck, then curls atop his shoulder—settling in like a perch it’s always known.
A tiny draconic form takes shape amid the flickers: translucent scales gleaming, wings folded with ornamental grace. Its eyes blink—then it chirps, a sound like crystal bells tumbling through soft velvet.
FELONIOUS: (in stunned delight) “It’s... cold.”
He touches it with a fingertip. The spirit dragon flicks its tail, nuzzles his cheek gently, and chirps again.
GREEGAN: (stepping forward, grinning) “Alright, little guy—time to find a new shoulder.”
He pokes at it playfully.
The spirit dragon huffs—a puff of glittering vapor—and tucks its wings tighter against Felonious, refusing to budge.
EZMERELDA: (smirking) “Guess he’s spoken for.”
ARABELLE: (beaming) “He likes you.”
CLARION: (softly, watching) “Or maybe... he remembers something about you.”
Felonious meets her gaze, hand resting gently against the creature’s chest.
FELONIOUS: “Then I won’t let him down.”
The dragon chirps once more and nuzzles into the curve of his collarbone. A guardian rekindled. A memory made flesh.
FADE TO:
The silver fire dims to a soft glow behind them. The manor watches, quietly pleased.
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – SOUTH BALCONY – AFTERNOON
The door creaks open into a mirror of the northern balcony, though age and battle have carved deeper scars here. The silver dragon familiar hovers briefly from Felonious’s shoulder, wings pulsing as it surveys the room—then returns, nestling against his neck with a contented chirp.
Splintered wood and threadbare carpet trail beneath their boots. Moonlight spills through fractured windowpanes, catching motes of dust like stars in orbit.
GREEGAN: (eyeing a dark patch near the edge) “This place is a sneeze away from collapse.”
Beyond the balcony’s curve, the door to the nearest bedroom gapes, barely hanging on rusted hinges. Inside, the remains of a once-elegant space stretch in quiet ruin. A canopy bed leans drunkenly to one side, the silks shredded and blackened as if scorched by memory. The floor bows and creaks, its middle broken through entirely—a yawning hole opening to the ballroom far below.
EZMERELDA: (peering down) “That’s a long way to fall. The ballroom’s spine is cracked.”
CLARION: “These rooms used to sing with laughter. Now they echo nothing but ghosts.”
Felonious kneels beside a shattered writing desk, brushing aside debris to reveal an iron clasp—a locket, untouched by time. He opens it slowly. Inside, a sketch: a dragon curling protectively around a child. In charcoal strokes, a name barely visible.
The familiar peers over his shoulder and chirps—a soft, sad note. Its flame brightens briefly, the cold glow pulsing with something like grief.
FELONIOUS: (quietly) “There were stories here... waiting.”
The group moves on—ginger-footed over the broken beams—leaving behind the shattered hush of what once was, carrying the flicker of remembrance deeper into the mansion’s heart.
🎬 Scene Title: “The Light in the Ashes”
EXT. RUINS OF ARGYNVOSTHOLT– Day
ANGLE ON FLEETWOOD
His enchanted blade flashes with runes—metal singing against wailing shadow. A PHANTOM lunges. Fleetwood pivots, slashing through its core. It vanishes like torn fabric in firelight.
CUT TO FELONIOUS
His fingers dance—arcane geometry midair.
FELONIOUS: (chanting) “Three strikes from chaos—make memory burn.”
MAGIC MISSILES spiral out, each bolt slamming into a phantom’s skull with pinpoint bursts. Echoes ripple across the fog.
GREEGAN stalks the edges, lip curled, eyes gleaming. His SPIDER FANG DAGGER pierces a ghost’s spine. It shudders violently, then melts into nothing but venom-laced whispers.
WHIP PAN TO EZMERELDA
She turns, cape snapping, sword blazing with ancestral flame. She slices one, then two phantoms, her fury a hymn of vengeance. The blade pulses with holy hate.
CLARION lifts both arms, the wind tugging at her cloak.
CLARION: (softly) “Let dawn judge the dead.”
RADIANT LIGHT bursts from her body—threads of divinity lacing through the ghosts. They scream, faces dissolving.
SFX: Silence. Echoes. Then—A WHISPER.
IREENA steps forward, hand trembling. Her eyes fill with impossible clarity. Time bends. Voices rise.
IREENA: (barely audible) “You shall not take them.”
SUNLIGHT erupts from her chest, a blinding cone of divine energy. The ground pulses. The phantoms flinch—then shatter, one by one, like stained glass under a funeral bell.
The dust settles. The Cloister is silent.
ANGLE ON IREENA – breathless, radiant, lit from within by something ancient and holy.
CLARION: (softly) “She’s one of us.”
EZMERELDA just nods. The sword falls to her side.
CUT TO BLACK.
🎬 Scene Title: “The Knights’ Warning”
Episode 9, Act I – Daytime at Argynvostholt
INT. RUINS OF ARGYNVOSTHOLT – SECOND FLOOR – DAY
Stone corridors echo with distant wind. The sun outside casts a pale light through cracked stained glass.
ANGLE ON GREEGAN as he kneels before a heavy oaken door. His SPIDER FANG DAGGER glints as he manipulates the lock.
Click.
The door creaks open.
INT. KNIGHTS’ QUARTERS
The air shifts. Instantly colder.
SFX: breath misting, fabric fluttering, a low hum rising
The party steps in. Their eyes scan the dim chamber—once noble, now forgotten. Dust coats broken armor stands and mold eats at torn banners.
Suddenly—
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four of the five windows slam open.
A WINTER WIND punches through the room, swirling frost into violent spirals. Papers lift, chairs scrape against the floor as if moved by unseen hands.
CLOSE-UP: CLARION’S eyes widen. FELONIOUS shields his face. EZMERELDA tightens her grip.
The fifth window—eastern and untouched—begins to shimmer. A thin rime crawls across the glass. Slowly, like a hand etching purpose into eternity, letters form:
“IF YOU BE SERVANTS OF THE DEVIL, BEGONE.”
The frost gleams, unnaturally perfect—each word chiseled with reverent anger.
Silence falls.
FLEETWOOD: (quietly) “We woke the dead.”
IREENA steps closer, her breath fogging the air. She stares into the writing, expression unreadable.
She lifts her hand, as if in prayer—or challenge.
EZMERELDA: (to the group) “This place remembers. And it does not forgive.”
CUT TO BLACK.
🎬 Scene Title: “The Clerk of Frost and Memory”
Episode 9, Act II – Knight’s Quarters, Day
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – KNIGHT’S QUARTERS – DAY
Cold clings to the room like buried sorrow. Frost creeps up broken glass and breath steams in the silence. The wind howls through shattered panes, moaning like voices trying to break free.
CLOSE-UP ON ARABELLE
She kneels, small hands lighting an incense punk. The smoke curls upward in thin, twisting spirals—scented with grave nettle and copper ash.
CAMERA SHIFT – ARABELLE’S PERSPECTIVE
The room changes subtly—colors muted, shadows thickening. The frost gleams brighter. Time feels slow. And then—she sees her.
GHOSTLY FIGURE BY THE WINDOW
A woman in tattered robes stands in the lightless glare of the eastern pane. Her form wavers, half-formed from memory and mourning. ( Jennifer Tilly)
ARABELLE: (softly, reverently) “Who are you?”
The woman turns. Eyes like forgotten candles. Her voice echoes like paper across stone.
MINODORA: “I was Mindora—clerk of the Order of the Silver Dragon.”
CUTAWAY FLASHES – MINODORA’S MEMORIES
— Scrolls inked with names.
— Vladimir Horngaard and Godfrey Gwilym riding into the mist.
— Screams in the halls.
— Steel at the threshold.
— Silence.
MINODORA (V.O.): ““I died the day Strahd breached this place. The knights had fallen… we were all shadows, clinging to duty.”
ARABELLE leans forward, eyes glowing faintly in trance. She whispers:
ARABELLE: “But why do they remain?”
MINODORA: “They died too close to despair. Their spirits tangled in memory… cursed to relive the last day. I do not know why it binds them.”
ARABELLE: “Do you know of Argynvost’s whispers?”
MINODORA: “No. But one does.” (pause) “Brother Marek. The chaplain. He sees all... hears all. But he does not speak lightly.”
The frost thickens. The wind fades. MINODORA steps back, voice trailing.
MINODORA: “If you bear light… he may answer.”
SFX: Incense flickers, and ARABELLE blinks. The spirit fades, leaving silence and ice.
CUT TO: THE GROUP WATCHING HER FROM ACROSS THE ROOM
Their expressions are a mix of wonder and dread.
FLEETWOOD: “What did she see?”
CLARION: “Someone who remembers.”
EZMERELDA: “Then let’s find the one who listens.”
CUT TO BLACK.
🎬 Scene Title: “One Step from the Void”
Episode 9, Act IV – Western Wing, Day
INT. ARGYNVOSTHOLT – WESTERN CORRIDOR – OUTSIDE BEDCHAMBER
The party gathers before the collapsed threshold, where splintered boards cling to what was once a proud bedroom. The interior is unstable—floor half-swallowed by the ballroom’s abyss below. Shafts of sunlight cut through the broken rafters in golden spears, illuminating the satchel barely visible across the room, cradled in crumbling debris.
EZMERELDA: (surveying the wreckage, arms crossed) “That floor’s one curse away from giving out completely. It’ll take someone with a light step… and a reckless streak.”
FELONIOUS: (dryly) “Two of which we have, one of whom I don’t trust with ladders.”
ALL TURN TO GREEGAN
GREEGAN: (grinning, rolling his shoulder) “Well, it isn’t a party unless I could fall to my death.”
He pulls his scarf tighter around his neck, eyes twinkling with bravado and a flicker of dread.
CLARION: (deadpan) “So you’re saying it’s officially a party now?”
GREEGAN: “A very exclusive one. Guest list: me, gravity, and whatever ghosts are still squatting in the subfloor.”
FLEETWOOD: “Just don’t make eye contact with any floorboards. They will challenge you.”
The silver dragon familiar chirps on Felonious’s shoulder—either in support or warning.
ARABELLE: (softly) “He’s watching. If you carry something sacred, tread like you mean it.”
GREEGAN: (drawing his dagger, eyeing the path) “Light step. Bold heart. Zero regrets.”
He steps into the threshold, toes kissing the edge of ruin.
CAMERA FOLLOWS FROM BEHIND
As Greegan begins his descent into the fractured room, the floor groans beneath history. The others watch from the hallway, breath held, ready to catch... or mourn.
FADE OUT.
