Begainning Credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (In our dreams, perhaps)
— Grimwild: Barovia
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal
A lit candle flickers against a stained-glass window. A gust of wind snuffs it out.
As darkness deepens, faint glyphs burn across the screen—a six-pointed sigil spinning slowly.
GRIMWILD: BAROVIA
The title emerges as cracked stone covered in frost
🏡 0:09–0:20 | Village of Barovia
Wide shots of a decaying village.
Shutters closing just before you look.
Rainwater tracing veins down crooked walls.
The church bell swings without sound.
Quick flash of the Durst house - first complete, then folding in on itself
🙍♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Wanderers
Split-second glimpses of the player characters through fog-framed vignettes:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) pacing beneath the shadow of a gallows.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) kneeling beside crumbled bones, whispering a blessing that makes the mist recoil.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) tasting blood, testing wind, and vanishing into branches.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) scrawling arcane sigils on a bar counter with wine.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) flipping a coin by a wishing well—its reflection doesn’t match the face.
Starring
Richard Armitage as Fleetwood
Gwendoline Christie as Clarion
Tatiana Maslany as Silverleaf
Ben Whishaw as Felonious
Matt Ryan as Greegan
💍 0:46–0:58 | Symbols Beneath the Skin
A signet ring drops into a basin of dark water.
Symbols spiral outward.
A map of Barovia redraws itself in blood as unseen hands shuffle tarot cards off-screen.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note
The mist closes in.
Five shadows move through the Gates of Barovia.
The gate clangs shut—on its own.
The village beyond looks unchanged...
…but listens.
Main Title by Alan Silvestri
Fade to black.
COLD OPEN BEGINS.
Background music: Into the Mists | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
EXT. OLD SVALICH ROAD – LATE MORNING
BLACK POOLS OF WATER gather across the muddy path, fractured mirrors reflecting the wary faces of the travelers. A damp chill clings to the air, thick and unmoving. On either side of the road, GIANT TREES LOOM—twisted limbs stretching outward, clawing, grasping, as if desperate to snatch those who dare trespass.
A tense beat. SILVERLEAF slows her steed, gaze darting around the unfamiliar landscape.
The trees sway ominously, their gnarled limbs shifting in the darkness. The deeper they press on, the more oppressive the forest becomes. The silence stretches long between them, filled only with the occasional drip of moisture from the trees, the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush.
EXT. GATES OF BAROVIA – LATE MORNING
The fog thickens, curling around their boots, swallowing the sunlight. Up ahead, dark shapes loom through the mist—gigantic stone pillars, their surfaces slick with age, standing like sentinels against the fading light. Between them, iron gates, rusted and towering, stretch across the road, sealing the path forward.
But it is the statues at each gate post that draw their uneasy gazes—monuments of warriors, each gripping a vicious polearm, their stance frozen in eternal vigilance.
Yet their heads—so lifelike, so intricately carved—do not rest upon their shoulders. Instead, they lie between their feet, severed, discarded, as if placed there in warning.
The party hesitates. The air grows still.
Then—
With a rusty shriek, the iron gates swing open, groaning under their own weight. No hand touches them. No presence bids them move. The mist curls inward, swallowing the opening whole. The path ahead is no longer closed—only waiting.
The iron gates stand open, waiting.
And with measured steps, they cross the threshold.
EXT. OLD SVALICH ROAD – LATE MORNING
The mist coils around them, thick and cloying, swallowing the world behind them. Even the iron gate is gone, consumed by the pale void.
Silverleaf narrows her eyes, straining to see beyond the murk, but there is nothing—only the dim outline of the Old Svalich Road, stretching forward, beckoning deeper into the gloom.
The silence is heavy. A pressure in the air that sits just behind their ears.
Then—
A wolf's howl splits through the mist.
Low. Haunting. Close.
The horses shift uneasily, ears flicking, hooves shuffling against the damp earth.
Clarion tightens her grip on her reins. Fleetwood slowly reaches for the hilt of his blade.
Felonious exhales softly, barely audible.
FELONIOUS: (murmuring, steady) "We’re being watched."
Raising his staff, he casts a light spell, but it does almost nothing to dispel the gloom.
GREEGAN: (looking back with a rogue's practiced eye for trouble) "We're being herded."
Silverleaf halts, her keen gaze locking onto something among the twisted undergrowth. A man. Fallen. Still.
His clothes are torn—not by claws, nor by blade—but by the cruel grasp of brambles and thorns, snagged and shredded in his final moments.
Clarion kneels beside the body, pressing a hand against his skin, brow furrowing as she reads the fading remnants of life—messy, imperfect, but enough. Her voice is low, edged with quiet certainty.
CLARION: "He died of exhaustion. Like he was running until he couldn’t run any more."
Then—Silverleaf kneels, carefully prying something from the man’s stiff fingers. A compass. Old. Tarnished. But intact.
She turns it over, watches as the needle twitches, uncertain, flickering. Then—it spins. Violently. Unhinged, directionless, tearing across the metal face in a frenzied dance.
Silverleaf takes a look around, but she's still disoriented from being wrenched from her familiar woods to this new place, and doesn't find anything of importance. Putting the body over Fleetwood's horse, they continue in the direction that Rose gave them.
EXT. VALLEY OF BAROVIA – DAY
The forest falls away, its suffocating embrace thinning as the road stretches into the open expanse—a valley, vast and brooding, veiled in mist. Above, rolling thunderclouds churn, swallowing the heavens in their storm-heavy bellies. No sunlight pierces the gloom. Evergreen trees claw their way up the mountains, creeping along jagged slopes like sentinels watching—waiting.
To the north, a stony mount rises, patches of trees struggling to survive against the rock. To the south, a snow-capped peak towers, its slopes rugged and cruel, looming with cold, imperious silence.
The muddy road stretches forward, winding through the valley, slicing through yellowed grasses, past farmland left gasping under an indifferent sky. A river snakes along the road, its surface deceptively pure—clear as a winter sky, but wrong. Unsettling. Watching. Then—the village.
Small. Humbled. Hunkered down as if it knows it must bow beneath the weight of what looms above. And towering over it—the castle. A dark, twisted fortress, perched atop sheer stone, its silhouette clawing against the sky.
Then—lightning rips through the storm, illuminating the keep in cruel contrast—sharp, harsh, impossible.
EXT. OUTSKIRTS OF BAROVIA – DAY
Silverleaf strains to see anything through the thick, unnatural mist that coils through the air. The air closes in, its weight pressing down upon them as shadows loom between the trees.
The horses slow, hooves slipping against the sudden shift in terrain. The damp, muddy ground beneath them gives way, shifting into slick, wet cobblestones, dark and gleaming under Felonious' strained light. Ahead, barely visible through the mist, stands a pitted wooden sign, its edges worn and splintered, as if time itself has tried to erase it.
WELCOME TO THE VILLAGE OF BAROVIA
The words seem to absorb the light, refusing to reflect even the faintest glow.
Background Music shifts: Village of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The skies shift, murky light pressing through the endless blanket of grey—the world trapped beneath a pall that refuses to lift. Fleetwood adjusts his grip on his sword, eyes scanning the village beyond, reading the fortifications, the quiet desperation woven into its defenses. Silverleaf furrows her brow, observing the sharpened stakes jutting from the trench surrounding the settlement, the cruel makeshift walls of fear and necessity.
The road continues ahead, bridging the trench with crude planks, the mud beyond giving way to wet, treacherous cobblestones. Fleetwood steps forward cautiously, gaze flicking toward the charred heap beside the bridge—the remnants of something burned, something purged. Felonious mutters something beneath his breath, testing the presence lingering in the blackened wood.
Silverleaf scans the buildings beyond the barricades, noting scorch marks, gashes—evidence of battles waged, walls that failed, homes that succumbed. Clarion tightens her grip, absorbing the eerie stillness within the ruined structures, the fog curling inside like a silent trespasser.
Then—figures above. Crossbows held steady. Watching. Guarding. Waiting. And below—villagers at work.
Haunted. Tired. Moving with the weight of survival. A barricade stretches across the street, thirty feet long, worn hands pressing planks into place, sealing gaps that will only break again. At the center—a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond, his splint armor worn but functional, his longsword buckled to his side. (Think Oliver Jackson-Cohen but blond, and dressed in functional though tarnished armor)
Fleetwood narrows his eyes, assessing him, absorbing the quiet leadership that lingers in his stance. Felonious tilts his head, curious but cautious.
Silverleaf watches a raven perched high above—a bird with blue-tipped wings, its gaze sharp, unwavering, watching the streets below as if it understands what is being built, what is being fought for.
SILVERLEAF: "This place. The woods, the village, everything - it feels like the land itself is wounded. Deeply, deeply hurt."
Fleetwood glares at the villagers, his sword hand steady but not raised, his breath slow, controlled. Felonious tilts his head, fingers twitching, magic humming at his fingertips, reading the energy in their voices. Silverleaf keeps her bow low but ready, eyes flicking toward the woman above, scanning her stance, reading the sharpness in her words.
Then—the woman speaks.
Her voice cuts through the morning fog, brittle, edged with something that has seen too much.
WOMAN: "Halt! Declare yourselves—be you dead or alive?"
Fleetwood steps forward, his voice even, firm, steady as iron.
FLEETWOOD: "Alive. For now at least."
The man beside her twitches toward his crossbow, the weight of mistrust thick in the air. The guards exchange glances, hesitation flickering across the woman’s face, uncertainty pooling in the grim-set jaw of the man beside her.
Then—the blond man glances toward them. The man does not look twice. His attention never lingers, never wavers from the barricade, from the warped planks and rusted nails, from the quiet necessity of their construction.
Greegan rides to the front, easy, deliberate, his grin sharp but friendly—the practiced charm of a man who can shift a conversation like the turn of a well-placed coin. His voice carries, smooth and edged with knowing, weaving the tale into the air as though it belongs here, as though it has always belonged.
GREEGAN: "Looks like you've had a measure of trouble around here, aye? And me and my friends, we're strangers here, but we're sure to be caught in it. Would be downright criminal to keep poor travelers out with such terrible things lurking about, wouldn’t it?"
Greegan grins wider, stepping into the silence before it has the chance to settle.
"And besides—"
His voice dips slightly, just enough to press the weight of the next words against them.
"We found a dead man. Seems only right to bring him home, doesn’t it?"
The blond man stills. Then he looks them over again. Not as travelers. Not as strangers. As something else. Something new. Something dangerous—or necessary.
Then—the whisper of recognition.A name spoken, uncertain, brittle.
SCOUT: "Dalvan Olensky."
Then—the doubt sinks in.
Another scout speaks, hesitant, voice laced with creeping dread.
“He went missing after last night’s attack."
Then—the truth cuts deeper.
"But he hasn’t been bitten. No claw marks. No wounds."
SCOUT #2: "The poor fool panicked. He ran—his heart just gave out."
Then—the blond man speaks. His voice carries, low but clear, edged with something settled, something practiced.
Background music shifts: Ismark Kolyanovich (Heroic Deeds Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Loop
ISMARK KOLYANOVICH: "They're strangers here. They came through those accursed mists, like others before. We've all met ones like them before." (He turns to the party) "I bid you welcome to the Village of Barovia. I am Ismark Kolyanovich."
Quick. Bitter. Soft, but cutting. One of the scouts mutters, just loud enough to be caught.
"Ismark the Lesser."
Then—a sharp hush.
Fleetwood sees the scout’s companion stiffen, a quick flicker of panic before pressing him into silence.
Ismark reads their presence, the quiet nuances beneath their words.
His eyes flick toward Fleetwood, a nod of respect forming before he even speaks.
ISMARK: "You wear your armor well. A man who knows his way around a sword is a rare thing here."
Fleetwood inclines his head slightly, accepting the quiet acknowledgment.
Felonious tilts his head, waiting, watching.
Ismark turns to him next, his stance firm but open.
"The arcane arts are always welcome in Barovia. You may find their use… necessary… all too soon."
Felonious nods once, absorbing the weight behind the words.
Silverleaf watches, listens, holding herself still.
Then—Clarion.
Ismark’s gaze shifts, lifting slightly—just enough to mark his own realization.
"I have never met a woman taller than I am."
There’s no jest in his tone, only intrigue. Only quiet admiration.
Clarion smiles—small, sharp.
Greegan laughs—soft, knowing.
Then—Ismark turns toward him, expression shifting, the weight of opportunity settling into his words.
"A clever man can find many opportunities to shine here."
Greegan grins wider, reading the layered meaning beneath the statement.
Silverleaf adjusts her stance, absorbing the conversation. Then—Ismark’s gaze lingers. Just a fraction too long.
Fleetwood catches it. Felonious sees it. Clarion notices. Greegan laughs—knowing, sharp, reckless.
Silverleaf says nothing—but there is something edged in the moment, something unspoken, something polite but present.
Greegan nudges Felonious lightly with an elbow, his grin sly, his tone barely above a whisper.
GREEGAN: "If Silverleaf plays her cards right, you and I might end up the old maids of the party."
Felonious blinks once, expression unimpressed but dry.
FELONIOUS: "Speak for yourself."
Silverleaf doesn’t react—yet. But there is a flicker in her gaze, a knowing amusement tucked in the corners of her mouth. Her keen ears have heard what Greegan said - but she doesn't acknowledge it.
INT. VILLAGE OF BAROVIA – WITHIN THE BARRICADES – MORNING
The air is heavier here, thick with weariness, pressing against the crumbling structures, curling into the shadows lurking beneath broken rooftops. Fleetwood steps carefully, watching the villagers, absorbing the quiet stares, the mistrust woven into their gaunt faces. Felonious tilts his head, fingers twitching, sensing the lingering tension woven into the muddy streets, the whispers threading through the stagnant air. Silverleaf narrows her gaze, reading the wariness settling into the hunched figures, the cautious distance they keep. Clarion keeps her posture strong but open. Greegan follows softly, his practiced rogue's gaze always watching, weighing the options.
Then—Ismark leads them forward. His voice cuts through the gloom—not loud, but familiar, grounded, threaded with something practiced. He greets each villager by name. They watch him, listen—but their expressions remain hollow, tired.
Ismark leads the party through a second set of barricades manned by more grim-faced villagers clutching clubs and spears like lifelines, who look like they might attack the party if he didn't vouch for them.
Fleetwood steps carefully, absorbing the weight behind their gazes, the unspoken warnings etched into their tightened grips. Felonious remains quiet, fingers twitching, sensing the desperation woven into the makeshift defenses, the quiet fear lingering beneath their resolute stance. Silverleaf examines her surroundings, gaze flicking toward the chipped stone figure rising at the square’s center—a man, armored in leather, holding a sword, his likeness worn by time and neglect.
Then—the square reveals its occupants. The flicker of makeshift tents, fires burning low, casting weak shadows against the damp stone. Haggard faces shift beneath the heavy mist, watching the newcomers with hollow eyes—young, old, sickly. Survivors pressed into this fractured space with no certainty beyond the next meal, beyond the next night.
Ismark leads them through the camp, and into the Blood On The Vine tavern.
INT. BLOOD ON THE VINE TAVERN – DAY
Background music shifts: Blood of the Vine Tavern | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Barovia Music & Ambience
The sign above this building's door, one of only two with light coming out on the village square, reads "Blood on the Vine" - but it looks like the sign used to read "Blood of the Vine" until someone changed it by scratching out the F and adding an N.
The door swings open, revealing a scene unlike any they've seen in Barovia—a wild celebration, thick with the scent of spilled wine and smoke. Villagers—gaunt, desperate, yet alive—throw back drinks, voices raised in breathless laughter. A figure in a tattered cloak gestures wildly, a bottle thrust forward.
FIGURE: (booming, infectious) "Drink, strangers! Tonight, we defy the grave!"
A fiddler’s bow dances over strings, weaving a melody—something ancient, something reckless. The music drives the crowd into motion. Glasses clash together. Arms wrap around shoulders. The party, uncertain yet drawn in, feels the pulse of defiance in the air—a moment stolen from the darkness. Above, in the rafters, ravens perch, watching. Silent witnesses to the impossible revelry.
The party settles at a worn wooden table, its surface scarred from years of use. The air is thick, a cocktail of damp wood, stale ale, and something less familiar—something rotting beneath the surface. The villagers still drink, still laugh—too hard. Yet behind the revelry, the walls seem too close, the light too dim.
Fleetwood scans the tavern with a warrior's gaze, reading the tension beneath the forced revelry of the villagers—celebrating survival, not victory.
ISMARK: "I wish I could offer you a better welcome. But you’ve already seen what’s become of the village."
Then—Ismark leans in slightly, his voice lowering, more deliberate now.
"It is rare that we see those from outside the Mists. How did you find yourselves on the Old Svalich Road?"
GREEGAN: "Well, now that is an interesting thing. See, I've never heard of this valley in me life. And from the look of this place, I'd never come here if I had. But me and my friends, we went to stop Bargle."
ISMARK: "What's a Bargle?"
GREEGAN: "You've never heard of him?"
ISMARK: "I don't think so. But go on."
GREEGAN: "Now I know we're not in Karameikos anymore. But anyway, we go to the place we were told we could find Bargle, but he ain't there. Instead, we find a house. If you can call it that. Big, ugly, and rotten as a goblin's oath. Don’t belong where it’s at. Well, we think this reeks of Bargle, so we go in to check it out. And inside—oh, inside was a masterpiece of misery. Walls that whispered, floors that sighed, shadows that followed when they had no right to. And two children—"
He pauses, letting the weight settle.
"Ghosts, trapped in a house that wouldn’t let them go. And wouldn’t let us go either." "It wanted us to play its game. Wanted to keep us. But—" (His dagger flips in his fingers, the blade catching the dim glow) "We don’t make good pets."
A laugh ripples through the tavern—some nervous, some entertained, some uncertain.
GREEGAN: "Well, we make it out of there by the skin of our choppers, only - we ain't where we started out. Instead we're - wherever here is,"
ISMARK : "The mists bring outsiders into Barovia sometimes. They don’t ask permission. They don’t follow reason. They simply take—and they rarely let go. Old tales tell of places, like the house you described, where people sometimes fall in."
(He seems to be unable to describe exactly what he is thinking.) "There have been stories—strange tales of travelers arriving under odd circumstances. A lost caravan here, a wayward sailor there, a scholar who swore they walked through a doorway and found themselves here. The details change, but the ending does not."
"Barovia is a land caught in the grip of something older than any of us. The mists don’t let people come and go freely—once you're here, you're here until it decides otherwise. Villages like this one endure, but survival is a thin thing, stretched between the threats in the dark and the will of those willing to fight them. The forests swallow the reckless, the roads lead only where they want you to go, and the castles… They belong to those who’ve held this land in their grasp for centuries."
FLEETWOOD: "Why are the villagers barricading the village?"
Ismark exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw, considering the weight of the answer before he speaks.
His voice is low, measured—but resigned.
ISMARK: "It started three months ago. A man named Doru—son of the village priest—rallied a rebellion against the castle. He wanted to free the valley, break the grip of the mists. He gathered those willing to fight, those desperate enough to believe. The rebellion failed. Badly. It woke Strahd —and he vowed vengeance upon the village for that intrusion. Six nights ago, the undead came. They have come every night since —wave after wave. We fight them back, but each night, they push closer. Each night, the barricades hold—but for how much longer none can say."
FLEETWOOD: “Who is this Strahd you speak of?”
Ismark exhales slowly, leaning back, rubbing a hand over his jaw, considering how much to say—how much they need to hear. Or how much they will believe.
ISMARK: "Strahd von Zarovich is the… master of this land. The first ruler, the last ruler—the only ruler. He is the ancient. He is the land. If you hope to survive here, you would do well to remember that."
(Close on Ismark’s haunted expression)
FADE TO BLACK
End Credits play over: Strahd von Zarovich | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Cello Theme | Loop