Beginning credits play over: Transylvania 1887
Fade in:
A long dining table in Castle Ravenloft, set for eight. Silver cutlery gleams. Empty chairs wait. The camera glides past goblets filled with dark red wine, flickering candles, and a single place card that reads Fleetwood.Title appears:
BAROVIA — in elegant serif, blood-dark lettering, reflected in the wine.
🩸 Character Introductions (each name appears as the camera passes them)
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage)
Standing in a mirror, adjusting the armor of the Order of the Silver Dragon. His reflection flickers — for a moment, he’s kneeling. Then he’s not.Clarion (Gwendoline Christie)
Alone in the study, reading a letter from Strahd. Her face unreadable. Behind her, the stained glass image of Brother Marek shifts slightly.Greegan (Matt Ryan)
In the hallway, fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger. He passes a portrait of himself — painted in Strahd’s style.Felonious (Ben Whisaw)
Holding the silver tablet. The Draconic script glows faintly. He looks up — and the candlelight dims.Silverleaf (Tatyana Maslany)
In the chapel, touching the cracked altar. Her eyes close. A spectral dragon wing unfurls behind her, then vanishes.Ireena (Tomasin McKenzie)
At the window, watching the drawbridge lower. Her hand trembles on the sill. A raven lands, then flies away.Arabelle (Cailee Spaeney)
Sitting at the table already, hands folded. Her eyes are wide. The wine in her goblet ripples.Ezmerelda (Morena Baccarin)
Sharpening her blade in the foyer. She looks up as the doors creak open. Her name appears in the reflection of the steel.
With:
Alexander Siddig as Rahadin
Carice Van Houten as Anastryasa Karelova
Thandie Newton as Ludmilla Villosevec
Emma Mackey as Sasha Ivliskova
Caleb Landry-Jones as Cyrus Belleview
Gary Oldman as Rudolph Von Richten
and Bill Skarsgaard as Strahd Von Zarovich
🎭 Scene Beat: “Velvet Daggers”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
Background Music: Dinner with the Devil | Castle Ravenloft Ambience
The fire gutters low, dimming the hall by a single shade. Felonious’s goblet remains untouched. His eyes gleam—not with anger, but with calculation. Around him, the court shifts in subtle, telling ways: Clarion folds her napkin with priestly precision. Fleetwood leans forward a fraction, the way a knight leans toward a battlefield. Greegan watches like a man waiting for thunder to choose a direction.
Outside, the storm claws at the stained‑glass windows, rattling them like bones in a reliquary. Candleflames shudder in their sconces, stretching long, trembling shadows across the banquet table.
At the far end sits Strahd von Zarovich, still as a carved idol. One hand rests on the arm of his throne‑like chair; the other turns the stem of a crystal goblet, its contents dark as a moonless well. Behind him, the organ pipes rise like a forest of iron spears.
Felonious sits opposite—elegant, composed, his silver pseudodragon curled at his shoulder like a punctuation mark waiting to strike. Candlelight glints off the ink stains on his fingers, the faint shimmer of sigils woven into his cuffs. He looks every inch the visiting scholar who has wandered into a cathedral of wolves and refuses to be impressed.
Strahd studies him with the patience of a predator who has already decided the outcome of the hunt.
STRAHD : “Felonious of Glantri. You are a man of learning. A man of… structure.”
He leans forward slightly. The motion is small, but the room feels it.
STRAHD : “Tell me something.”
The candles nearest him flicker, bowing as though to a sovereign.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “Imagine you are a king, and an assassin slips into your domain in the night. He stalks your halls, tears into your window through the silk screen. He seeks your life. But your guards—loyal, vigilant—repel him. They drive him back into the dark.”
His eyes gleam, ancient and hungry.
STRAHD: “What would you do next, were you that king?”
The hall falls utterly still.
Felonious inhales—slow, thoughtful.
Then he smiles. Faintly. Precisely.
FELONIOUS : “First, I commend my guards. Quietly. A whispered bonus. A relocation. A token of gratitude that says, ‘I see you, and I know what loyalty tastes like.’”
He lifts a hand, tracing an invisible line in the air.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D) : “Then I do… nothing. At least, visibly. My chamber remains untouched. I leave the gouged window frame. I do not replace the torn silk screen.
I let the castle speak: Yes, he entered. No, he did not succeed. Let that echo louder than proclamations.”
His voice softens.
FELONIOUS (QUIETLY) : “Then I summon my spymaster. I do not ask who. I ask why.
And I let the answer guide me—not toward punishment, but toward prevention.”
He folds his hands.
FELONIOUS (FINAL) “A king who tightens his grip in fear finds fewer hands willing to steady him. Let them wonder what I know. Let them fear what I might do. Because a monarch survives not through sword or sorcery—but through silence… and implication.”
Strahd smiles—not with approval, but with intrigue.
One predator recognizing another who kills by implication.
STRAHD: “Delicious. You answer not with blade, but with theater. You might have made a fine vampire, Felonious.”
Felonious inclines his head.
FELONIOUS : “So the lord of Boldavia once told me. If I may, Count—you remind me of him. In Glantri, the sanguinarch is more revered than feared. But I preferred to keep my blood on the inside. A peculiarity of mine.”
Escher laughs softly.
Ludmilla murmurs something in a language no longer spoken.
Clarion’s gaze flicks toward the window— suddenly aware of how fragile glass can be.
🎭 Scene Beat: “The Daggers That Danced”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
The fire dims as if listening. Shadows lean inward. Strahd’s goblet rests still in his hand, untouched—less a drink than a relic.
STRAHD (quietly, iron beneath velvet): “I have survived the sharpened spite of many assassins. As a soldier, they came with rusted steel and trembling hands.
As a ruler, they came in velvet gloves—daggers slipped between politics and pearls.”
He shifts in his chair. The air tightens.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “And since my rebirth into undeath… they’ve come with holy water hidden in flasks, with spells whispered in churches long since crumbled, with hope that my end could be bought with silver and prayer.”
He looks toward the fire. It flares—scorched by memory.
STRAHD (FINAL) : “And all of them failed.”
He turns back to the table, gaze sweeping the guests before settling on Clarion with surgical precision.
STRAHD: “Though I am loath to stain a night of fellowship with business, I must confess I have suffered the attentions of one such assassin quite recently— a viper by the name of Rudolph van Richten.”
The name lands like a chord struck too hard.
STRAHD (measured, predatory): “My servants were unable to apprehend him. He is still at large. And rumors—ah, rumors—whisper he stalks these lands like death with a conscience.”
He lifts his goblet at last, sipping.
STRAHD (looking at Clarion): “Have you heard any whispering of his presence in your travels through my domain?”
A compulsion unfurls—gentle, velvet-soft, but rooted deep.
Clarion’s heart tightens. Her throat prickles with resistance.
But she has danced with devils before.
CLARION (calm, crystalline): We do not know this man. And if he truly walks unseen beneath your gaze… then he is either a ghost— or the kind of hunter who leaves no tracks.”
Silence. Then—
Strahd nods once. The pressure dissolves.
Fleetwood exhales.
Felonious licks a pen, already writing riddles.
Greegan watches Strahd, learning.
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — LATER
Background Music shifts: Strahd von Zarovich | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Cello Theme | Loop
Candlelight dances across goblets like secrets waiting to be spilled. Felonious nudges his plate forward, eyes gleaming—not with malice, but with precision.
He speaks gently. Too gently.
FELONIOUS : “You’ve done most of the asking, Count, and we’ve answered as best we can. But surely you know I’ve read your tome. Your thoughts on necromantic convergence—arcane refinements in soul tethering—I dare say I’ve learned more from your writing than from any living master. Bargle certainly doesn’t compare.”
He turns his goblet. One rotation. Two. Then he meets Strahd’s gaze.
FELONIOUS (smiling): “Still… there’s nothing quite like speaking to the author.”
A beat. Strahd tilts his head.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D): “You rule absolutely. No court holds sway above you.
No voice contradicts your will. So tell me, Count— why Count? Why not King?”
The room tightens.
Ludmilla freezes mid-sip.
Fleetwood’s eyes sharpen.
Clarion tilts her head.
Greegan leans forward, sensing sparks.
Strahd’s smile flickers—just slightly. The pause between thunder and echo.
STRAHD (soft, almost wistful) : “A king inherits. A count earns.”
He sets his goblet down with quiet finality.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “Kings are crowned in temples, lifted by priests, shackled by precedent and fealty. But Count—Count is a title carved from blood and conquest. I took this land—not by divine right— but because no one could stop me.”
He rises, slow and deliberate.
STRAHD: (to Felonious) “Besides… kings must answer to history. Counts? We write it.”
He smiles—full, knowing, dangerous.
STRAHD (FINAL) : “Would a king host dinner for his enemies? Offer wine to those who might one day unmake him? No… A Count cultivates shadows. And drinks deeply from them.”
The room exhales, as if it had forgotten how..
🎭 Scene Beat: “The Glory That Burns”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
The organ exhales a low, uncertain chord.
The chandelier sways—not from breeze, but from memory shifting its weight.
Fleetwood leans back, his voice steady, unadorned. A warrior speaking to another warrior.
FLEETWOOD : “You miss the challenge, don’t you? Riding into battle on your steed…
well, before he was on fire, anyway. Surely magic isn’t your only story. Tell us of your greatest victory.”
Strahd does not answer immediately.
He gazes into his goblet, the wine glinting like a battlefield frozen in amber.
Then—
STRAHD: (low, reflective) “There was a time before the castle.
Before the magic. Before the taste of blood grew familiar.”
He sets the goblet down—empty now, but still red.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “I was a general once, under the banner of King Barov. We were outnumbered three to one—cornered in the foothills of the Balinoks. And I rode forward, not with spell, but steel. My blade was iron. My horse was mortal. And death came fast—just not fast enough.”
A long silence.
Even Ludmilla watches without blinking.
STRAHD: “I broke the rebel line myself. Split their commander’s throat while his men still cheered his name. The snow that night was not white. They call it the Crimson Dusk.”
Fleetwood nods—not reverently, but knowingly.
A soldier recognizing another soldier’s truth.
STRAHD (softly) “I earned my reputation in blood and frost. Magic came later. But I miss the challenge. The weight of chainmail. The exhaustion. The moment before battle… when life still mattered.”
He lifts his gaze to the table.
Power glints in his eyes—
but behind it, something older flickers.
Not hunger for blood.
Hunger for meaning.
STRAHD (FINAL, ALMOST TO HIMSELF): “Bucephalus died clean. I did not.”
🎭 Scene Beat: “Things Once Wild and Free”
The room stills again—Strahd’s memory summoned not by praise, but by quiet challenge.
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — CONTINUOUS
Goblets rest untouched.
The fire burns low.
Smoke curls in the hearth like the spine of a dreaming beast.
Silverleaf leans forward, voice soft, curious rather than bold.
SILVERLEAF : “These woods… Did you ever hunt them, once? Not with command or magic— but with bow, with breath held, with silence. Before they knew you. Before they feared you.”
Strahd’s eyes drift toward the window.
A raven perches on the ledge beyond, watching.
STRAHD: (distant) “Yes. As a boy.”
His voice thins, stretched between centuries.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “There were wolves then—real ones. Deer that vanished like ghosts among the birch. I knew the trails better than my tutors. I named one of the boars… and still slew it.”
He turns to Silverleaf—not in scorn, but in recognition.
STRAHD: “The forest taught me hunger. Before I ever knew war, it taught me to take.”
A pause.
Then—
Clarion speaks.
Her voice cuts through memory like frost across glass.
CLARION : “Do you ever miss the light?”
No accusation.
No fear.
Just a lantern held out in a crypt.
Strahd closes his eyes.
For a moment—nothing.
Then—
STRAHD (soft, unreadable) : “Every dawn… But I never wake in time.”
A breeze stirs though no window is open.
Ludmilla grips her goblet too tightly.
Rahadin exhales, almost inaudible.
Even the organ seems to shiver.
Strahd opens his eyes—
and for a single breath, they are not ancient.
Not powerful.
Just tired.
STRAHD (FINAL): “The curse did not rob me of the light. It taught me to forget its warmth.”.”
🎭 Scene Beat: “The Name That Breaks the Room”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
The fire gutters low.
A draft winds through the chandeliers.
The organ exhales a single involuntary sigh.
Felonious doesn’t shift, but something in his posture tightens—
knuckles pale, throat dry.
He glances toward Clarion, who holds her breath.
Fleetwood stills mid-sip.
Greegan watches, uncertain whether he’s about to witness bravery… or madness.
FELONIOUS: (measured, nearly whispered) “Tell me about… Sergei.”
A pause.
FELONIOUS (CONT’D) : “You wrote of him in your tome. Do you still feel the same about him now… as you did then?”
The last word lands like a blade dropped on marble.
Not shouted.
Not forced.
Just placed—exactly where it will echo.
Strahd does not move.
His smile fades—not in drama, but in absence.
Like a painting left too long in moonlight.
The candles seem dimmer, though none flicker.
STRAHD (after a long silence, voice like cold stone) : “You read my tome. You read his name… and now you speak it aloud.”
A beat.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “Brave.”
He stands slowly.
His eyes are hooded—
not angry,
but far older than wrath.
STRAHD: “Sergei was a boy made of kindness. His sword was light. His heart…
always a wound I could not mend. Nor bear.”
He looks past the table, past the walls, past the years.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “He loved her. She loved him. And I—”
His voice cracks.
Just slightly.
Enough for the air to still.
STRAHD (LOWER): “I made a kingdom to silence that love. And still it sings.”
Clarion watches—
not judging,
but straining to see what remains inside the man who rewrote fate for grief.
Felonious says nothing more.
Even he knows better now.
STRAHD (FINAL): “Do I feel the same?”
A pause.
STRAHD : “Now… I feel what is left.”
He turns and sits.
The organ murmurs low behind him.
No one moves.
Even time seems reluctant to disturb the moment.
🎭 Scene Beat: “The Question That Cuts Both Ways”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
The final course has been cleared.
Wine clings to the edges of goblets like old blood to memory.
Strahd sits still, one hand resting near the organ keys—though he hasn’t played in minutes.
Greegan breaks the silence.
Not boldly.
Not theatrically.
Just with quiet steel—sharpened by empathy, or curiosity.
Hard to say.
GREEGAN (softly): “What vexes you most, Count? The thing you cannot master.
The thought that keeps you from rest—even in a place without day.”
Strahd does not react at once.
Ludmilla tenses beside her untouched glass.
Escher lifts an eyebrow, intrigued.
Felonious tilts his head, calculating the cost of curiosity.
Clarion watches Strahd’s hands.
The vampire gazes toward the window.
The raven still perches there, silent.
Then—
STRAHD (measured) “Do you know what it is to win every battle—
to silence your enemies, to build your castle from the echoes of their bones?”
A pause.
No one breathes.
STRAHD (CONT’D) : “And still— not understand how a single mortal girl looked past all of it… and chose someone else.”
The silence deepens.
Clarion presses her hand to her chest, bracing against something unseen.
Strahd stands.
He moves toward the organ—slowly, deliberately.
STRAHD (FINAL): “She looked at me, once. And I believed it meant everything.”
He rests his fingers on the keys.
STRAHD: “I’ve rewritten time. Slaughtered gods. Bent souls into obedience.
But I still don’t understand love.”
A single note rings out—
dissonant, sharp, vibrating into the wineglasses like a scream muffled in velvet.
STRAHD (SOFTLY) : “That is my vexation. And it is a wound I cannot close.”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — MOMENTS LATER
Silverware gleams untouched on velvet placemats.
Shadows curl around the corners of the room like gossip.
Strahd rises first.
His movement is smooth, practiced—
the elegance of a creature too old to stumble.
His smile is thin.
His eyes unreadable.
STRAHD: “The hour grows indulgent. If you would care for a tour… I imagine the castle would enjoy showing off.”
Escher perks up, amused.
Ludmilla stands without a word.
Felonious offers a theatrical bow.
Fleetwood nods cautiously, one hand drifting to his belt—habit, not threat.
Then—
CLARION: “If it pleases you, Count von Zarovich… I would prefer to remain.”
She gestures toward the organ.
CLARION (CONT’D): “I have studied the great instruments of Glantri, Thyatis, even the high basilicas of Darokin… yet none compare to this. No church in Mystara possesses an organ of such design. Its craftsmanship is extraordinary. I’d like… to understand it more intimately.”
A pause—like a dropped quill.
Fleetwood’s gaze shifts toward her, but she does not meet it.
Her eyes remain on Strahd.
His eyebrows lift—just slightly.
STRAHD (smirking) “Of course. The castle will wait for you. And the organ—well—
it likes to be admired.”
He crosses to her slowly.
The guests stir, uncertain whether to watch or retreat.
Strahd stops beside her shoulder.
His voice lowers.
STRAHD: “That white streak suits you, Clarion. A little frost in the dark. How very… Barovian.”
He turns before she can respond.
His cloak sweeps softly across the floor.
STRAHD (TO THE OTHERS) : “Come. Let the castle whisper its secrets— those it has not already sung.”
They exit.
One pair of boots hesitates—Fleetwood—
then follows.
Clarion remains.
She walks slowly to the organ.
Her fingertips graze the keys.
They do not stir.
The candles flicker, as if breath touches their flame.
She sits.
In the silence that follows,
a single note sounds—
not from her hand.
The organ plays one aching chord.
And then—
nothing.
🎭 Scene Beat: “Keys and Warnings”
INT. CASTLE RAVENLOFT — DINING HALL — NIGHT
The guests begin to file out, velvet cloaks brushing cold stone.
The air is perfumed with vintage sorrow and candle smoke.
Strahd stands near the threshold, posture regal, expression unreadable.
Clarion remains seated at the organ, her fingers hovering just above the ivory keys—listening, not yet playing.
He turns back to her.
The firelight catches the gleam of his signet ring.
STRAHD: “Many things lurk in the dark corners of this keep. Rooms sealed in grief… Corridors that do not remain where you left them.”
His smile tilts—crafted, not cruel.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “The castle is fickle with strangers. It would be a shame to lose your company so soon.”
A pause.
STRAHD: “I shall send Escher to collect you once our tour concludes.”
His gaze lingers—not on her face, but on the streak of white threading through her hair like a memory clawing its way free.
STRAHD (SOFTLY) : “That little frost suits you. A mark of transformation. Barovia leaves its fingerprints eventually.”
He turns.
The doors groan open under his touch.
The others pass through.
Clarion listens until their footsteps fade.
Then—
she breathes.
Soft.
Steady.
Her fingers press a single note.
The castle does not answer.
But something… listens.
🎬 Montage Sequence: “The Path of the Pale Sovereign”
Background Music: Exploring Castle Ravenloft | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Dark Background Music | Loop
🎞️ Guests’ Hall
Strahd walks ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette framed in flickering torchlight.
He plucks a torch from a wrought-iron sconce—its flame sputtering, casting long, restless shadows.
STRAHD (wryly): “My eyes are well-adjusted to the shadows that haunt these halls…
but a mobile source of light might be kinder to yours.”
Fleetwood accepts the torch without comment.
Greegan follows, posture taut.
🎞️ Great Entry
The massive doors groan open like something waking from a long sleep.
The group passes through like intruders in a dream—
footsteps echoing on cold marble, murals watching from above.
Felonious mutters, dry as dust:
FELONIOUS : “Grandeur wasted on ghosts.”
🎞️ Hall of Faith
Columns reach like frozen prayers toward the ceiling.
Faded scripture lines the walls in languages no one remembers.
Strahd gestures toward a cracked mural.
STRAHD: (softly) “Some still believe this hall holds sanctity.
They never ask who built it.”
FELONIOUS: “Then you didn’t?”
STRAHD: “The castle is older than I. I did not lay the pillarstone. I built Ravenloft atop the ruins of an older fortress.”
He smiles, faintly.
STRAHD (CONT’D)
“I summoned mages, architects, engineers from every corner of my conquests.
And from every corner… they came.”
🎞️ Chapel
A shattered altar sits in quiet ruin.
Candles flicker without flame.
A bloodstain remains where no one remembers the wound.
STRAHD: “I recall the day Prefect Ciril Romulich dedicated this hall to the Morninglord. Each man and woman believed in the power of his consecration. Yet behold what it has become.”
He turns.
STRAHD: “What, I wonder, do you have faith in?”
IREENA: (quiet, firm) “In truth. In wounds that don’t vanish when the night ends. In choices made by frightened people… that still changed something.”
Strahd prowls toward her like smoke seeking a crack.
IREENA (CONT’D): “You taught me faith in silence. In the way evil demands worship— but good doesn’t ask. It just exists quietly… until it’s needed.”
Her hand tightens on her weapon—not to strike, but to anchor.
IREENA (FINAL) : “I have faith in the ones who came for me. Not because they had to. But because they didn’t know what they’d face… and came anyway.”
FLEETWOOD: “Don’t think I could top that one. You?”
Greegan, Felonious, and Silverleaf all shake their heads.
Strahd turns toward the stained-glass sun in the highest chapel window.
STRAHD: “I have never found much use for faith in other things or creatures. Far better, it seems, to place one’s faith entirely in oneself— and master one’s fate without reliance.”
FLEETWOOD: “Steel dulls. Oaths fade. But I’ve seen mercy survive in places cruelty reigns. I have faith in the promise made quietly… when no one is watching. That’s the kind that holds.”
STRAHD: “Indeed…”
🎞️ North Chapel Access
They descend a narrow passage.
The ceiling presses close.
The walls sweat with condensation.
Escher whispers in Ludmilla’s ear as they vanish into the dark ahead.
🎞️ Creaky Landing
Wood groans beneath their steps—alive, annoyed.
Torchlight stretches long across warped beams, revealing age without wisdom.
🎞️ King’s Balcony
Moonlight seeps through thin windows.
Strahd stands framed like a portrait, gazing at the lands far below.
STRAHD: “From here, I have seen kingdoms rise… and forget me.”
🎞️ King’s Hall
Portraits hang crooked.
A tapestry shivers inexplicably.
One painting stares back with eyes not painted there yesterday.
A ten-foot tapestry hangs from an iron rod—
knights charging beneath a bloodred sky.
The lead rider wears a fur-lined cloak, gray armor, and a wolf-shaped helm.
His sword glows with sunlight.
STRAHD: “Do you know who this depicts? My father, King Barov of Zarovia—
leading his bogatyrs into glorious battle.”
Fleetwood steps closer.
FLEETWOOD: “What a beautiful sword.”
Strahd winces, just slightly.
STRAHD : “The Brightblade. Forged from the hilt of an elven Moonblade and a crystal imbued with the Morninglord’s radiance. It was broken long ago.”
🎞️ Guards’ Post
Empty armor stands at attention.
One gauntlet shifts—just slightly.
Strahd says nothing.
Greegan notices.
Fleetwood doesn’t.
🎞️ Audience Hall
Their final stop.
The room is vast, echoing with silence too clean.
Thrones—plural—sit vacant.
STRAHD: “Saint Andral anointed my father, King Barov, as rightful heir to the crown of old Zarovia. I was there. A child. I remember the incense. The chant. The look in my father’s eye—like he’d inherited history itself.”
He drifts closer to the seat.
STRAHD : “When my father died, I wore the crown. I was named King. And for a time… that title meant something.”
STRAHD (CONT’D): “My conquests stretched like shadows across valleys.:
My armies stood where no map had dared mark.”
The wind sighs against stained glass.
STRAHD (LOWER) : “Then the Mists came. They drew borders where victory once lived. The lands I had taken… consigned to myth. Gone.”
His voice curdles—not with bitterness, but with grief lacquered over centuries.
STRAHD (CONT’D): “It would be arrogance beyond folly to name myself King without a kingdom to rule, Felonious. So I keep the King’s seat turned from my reach
- as a memento of what I lost. Of what the land remembers… and what it has tried to forget.”
A long silence.
Then—he smiles.
Faintly.
Terribly.
STRAHD (SOFTLY) : “And yet… few things are lost forever. Perhaps one day, one of you will sit with me.”
His hand grazes the arm of the throne.
But he does not sit.
His eyes flick briefly back toward the dining hall. A slight smile.
Fleetwood notices.
The torch gutters.
The castle listens.
A raven flutters past the high windows.
The torch dims once more.
FADE TO BLACK:
End Credits Play over: Into the Mists | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop