Begainning Credits play over: Transylvania 1887
🎬 OPENING CREDITS (In our dreams, perhaps)
Melodic War Productions presents:
— 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.
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
🗡️ 0:34–0:45 | 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: BLOOD OF THE VINE TAVERN, LATE AFTERNOON
Background music: Blood of the Vine Tavern | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Barovia Music & Ambience
FLEETWOOD: "How can we- "
He is interrupted by a loud, sharp slam against a table nearby. Fleetwood halts mid-sentence, his gaze snapping toward the source of the disturbance. Silverleaf narrows her gaze, scanning the squat man, noting the twitch in his clenched fist, the scowl carved deep into his features.
(Imagine Toby Jones, only a much more frazzled, gray, and unshaven version in an old-fashioned suit)
Then—the man speaks. His voice rasps, rough, edged with bitterness, with something weighty and weathered.
STRANGER: "It's a fool's errand to put your faith in Ismark the Lesser."
Then—the man leans forward, dark eyes lingering on the party, his voice lower, heavier.
"Best to seek better company, lest you wind up in the ground with the last fools that trusted him."
ISMARK: (exasperated) "Bildrath! Go home, you're drunk."
BILDRATH: (To the party) "Why don't you come over here, and I'll tell you the real story of this bloody land? The wine's crap - but so's everything else."
Greegan, intrigued, slides over to Bildrath's table, leans forward, his grin easy, his voice smooth—but his usual charm falters.
GREEGAN: "So, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on then?"
Bildrath takes a drink of his wine, and begins his tale:
BILDRATH: "So, three months ago, that priest's kid, Doru, he started fillin' the local lads around here with all sort of fairy tales, said they should go up there to the old castle and kill the monster, that it would bring the sun back to Barovia." (Snorts) "Well, they went up there all right, same as he said. None of them came back. At least I hope not."
He takes a deep drink of wine, grimaces, and continues.
BILDRATH: "Few days later, a fella like her," (He points directly at Silverleaf) "except darker, he shows up and says we have ninety days to make peace with our gods because they'd offended the Lord and Master of Castle Ravenloft and he would extract penance."
He puts the wine down on the table.
BILDRATH: "Smart folks left. The rest - well, that's when Ismark the Lesser got out there in the square, and gave a big speech, saying we had to defend our homes, our families. The audacity of the bastard, standing in front of his great-grandfather's statue like he was worth a tenth of him."
BILDRATH: (laughs bitterly) "Morninglord knows, I wanted to go too. But my sister and her family, they listened to him. Decided to stay, and fight for what was theirs. Bloody fools. Should have run and never look back." (Choking back tears) "Well, the undead came, just like that black Elf said. Woods crawlin' with 'em. And well, now there's only me and my nephew left - BECAUSE OF HIM!" (Points accusingly at Ismark)
GREEGAN: "So, this monster from the castle. The one the priest's boy riled up. What is it?"
BILDRATH: "You really are strangers here, aren't ya? Strahd von Zarovich is the master of Barovia. Has been for centuries. He's the first ruler and the last—because nothing else survives him."
GREEGAN: (interested now) "Yeah, heard that song already. Tell me more about him. What's his deal?"
Ismark looks as though he's not terribly comfortable with this line of discussion, but Bildrath continues anyway.
BILDRATH: "He's been quiet for years - until would-be heroes started stirring him up. He’s no man, not anymore. He’s something else. Something ancient. And this land belongs to him, not because he rules it, but because he is it." (Becoming more agitated) "People like Ismark the Lesser, they think you have choices in Barovia. You don't. You think you can fight him? You don't. Strahd doesn’t just rule. He watches. He waits. He gets what he wants in the end. Always."
FELONIOUS: "And now what he wants is the destruction of your village?"
As the party continues to discuss the situation with Ismark and Bildrath, in the background a middle-aged woman in a tattered and threadbare cloak enters the tavern. (Think Toni Colette in maternal anguish mode) Eyes darting around with terror, she sees Ismark and heads through the tavern toward him. Her face is pale, her eyes blotchy from crying.
ISMARK: (recognizing her) "Mary? What's wrong?"
MARY: (Desperate) "Oh, sir. I am so sorry to bother you, but I don't know what else to do. I don't mean to trouble you or your guests but - I haven't seen Gertruda since last night, and Norri isn't in the stable. I'm afraid she's gone to Vallaki - alone!"
Ismark's brow furrows with worry. But he tries to speak calmly.
ISMARK: "Mary, that's terrible. I'll organize a search party at once. If she didn’t make it to Vallaki, we'll find her—and bring her home safely."
BILDRATH: (snorts derisively) "More of your empty promises?" (He turns to the party) "Have you ever seen anything so cruel?"
FLEETWOOD: "My friend here is an expert tracker." (He indicates Silverleaf) "Surely she can find your daughter."
ISMARK: (defensively) "Our local scouts know these woods far better than," (He pauses, another perhaps too long look at Silverleaf) "- even you." (He places a comforting hand on Mary's shoulder) "They'll find Gertruda without fail. A small group should be able to skirt the undead horde without any problem. But if too many are with them, the undead will notice - and attack."
He continues, with charm that makes even Greegan jealous.:
"If you would like to help, we need every sword, every spell, every trick we can find to reinforce the barricades. I can't promise coin, but if we pull together all of us might just last the night."
SILVERLEAF: "He's right. I don't know these woods, and they don't… speak to me. I think we'll do better here for the time being."
FLEETWOOD: "Very well. But I'm not comfortable with leaving that poor girl for -"
BILDRATH: (Spits) , "No one can survive alone on those roads. The girl's gone, Mary. I'm sorry."
Mary immediately breaks down crying. Ismark is angered.
ISMARK: "That is enough, Master Cantemir."
BILDRATH: (bitterly) "Oh, ho ho, Master Kolyanovich. Do you think that you are going to put me in my place?"
Fleetwood stands, towering over the drunken Bildrath. Close up of his shadow looming over the man.
FLEETWOOD (Coldly, menacing) "Perhaps he'll not be the only one. You leave that poor woman alone or it's not just him you'll have to deal with."
Bildrath immediately stops talking and slinks away, paying the barkeep and quickly scampering out the door.
Clarion attempts to speak comfort to Mary, but her words fail to calm the woman's fears.
ISMARK (quiet but resolved): "The town’s in no state to reward heroism, but my father’s house still stands… barely. There’s shelter there. Food. A roof that leaks less than most."
(He steps closer, lowering his voice as though the very mist might listen.)
ISMARK: "I need a favor in return. My sister—Ireena—keeps the last case of fire bottles. We’ve had to ration what's left. You'll find her at the Burgomaster's mansion. It's at the southern edge of town, the stone manor with boarded windows and ivy trying to choke the gates."
(He pauses, glancing around as if weighing invisible threats.)
ISMARK: "Tell her I sent you. She’ll know what to do. But tread lightly. The house… carries grief like damp carries mold."
EXT. STREETS OF BAROVIA - AFTERNOON
Background music shifts: Village of Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Background Music | Loop
The mist hangs low, thick enough to smother sound. As the party steps into Barovia’s winding streets, silence presses in from all sides—unnatural and expectant, like the town itself is holding its breath. Windows are shuttered tight. Doors bolted with heavy timber. The few souls glimpsed retreat into shadows the moment eyes meet.
Here and there, crude barricades of overturned wagons, stacks of chairs, and shattered beams block alleys and narrow lanes. Spiked boards lie in wait beneath damp canvas. Someone—or many someones—have laid traps, not for invaders, but for monsters. It seems the townsfolk are ready to mislead anything mindless enough to shamble through.
FLEETWOOD: “These aren’t defenses to hold ground… They’re meant to confuse. Delay. Like a rat’s maze for the undead.”
A left turn becomes a dead end. A narrow street circles back on itself. What should’ve been a straight path to the Burgomaster’s mansion now loops them to the north edge of town—past the old gallows, long unused, but not forgotten.
GREEGAN (frustrated): “I thought he said the mansion had ivy on the gates! I haven’t seen a single gate, let alone one with plants still alive.”
Above, the fog-draped rooftops creak in the chill wind. Every wrong turn feels heavier than the last, the air growing colder as if punishing their missteps. The party isn’t just lost—they’ve been swallowed.
Camera glides low, following the party through an alley choked by mildew and broken slate. The mist parts just enough to reveal a row of crooked homes—deserted. No townsfolk in sight. Not even distant silhouettes behind the warped shutters.
FELONIOUS (frowning): “Where is everyone?”
FLEETWOOD (tense): “They’ve been avoiding this street... for a reason.”
Background music shifts again: Encounter in Barovia | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Combat Music | Loop
A guttural splash echoes from a nearby drain. The party stops. The cracked cobblestones ahead tremble—first subtly… then rhythmically. The ground seems to pulse. Something is coming.
[SFX: Wet rustling, like soaked fabric being dragged over wood. Then—SQUEALS. Hundreds of them.]
Rats. Pouring from a crumbling sewer grate like a living flood—eyes gleaming with unnatural awareness. They don’t flee at the sight of humans. They march.
CLARION (horrified whisper): “Chardastes preserve... they’re coordinated.”
The first wave swarms a toppled fence, stripping it of bark and nail in seconds. More spill from beneath the porch of the derelict house ahead—shrieking, clawing, climbing over one another in a frenzy. The house itself seems to pulse as if alive with vermin.
[SHOT – CLOSE-UP] A rat rears on its hind legs, baring yellow teeth. It hisses directly at the camera.
GREEGAN (backpedaling): “We’re not just lost. We’re trapped.”
[FULL VIEW – BIRDS-EYE] The street, the yard, the rotting house—engulfed in a writhing, squealing tide. A blanket of biting fur and shining eyes. One misstep, and they’ll be dragged down, drowned in fang and fur.
FLEETWOOD (drawing weapon): “We hold position or we don’t leave this street. Eyes on each other—don’t. go. under.”
Felonious : “Ignis in manibus meis!”
The sewer grates rattle. The ground pulses. Then—
FWOOOOOSH.
A cone of fire bursts forth from Felonious’ outstretched palm, illuminating the mist in a wash of orange heat. Rodents ignite mid-sprint, sizzling and shrieking… but the wave keeps coming.
Their eyes gleam like coals in the blaze. They do not break. They do not scatter. They climb the flaming bodies of their kin, driven by something unseen—something cruel.
FLEETWOOD (stumbling back): “That should have stopped them!”
[SFX: Chittering chorus rising—unnatural, rhythmic. Organized.]
CLARION (tightening grip on her holy symbol): “Then we stop them the old way.”
FLEETWOOD (grim): “With steel and stomach.”
[INTENSE MONTAGE – MELEE IN THE SWARM]
Fleetwood’s blade flashes like silver lightning, cutting through the mass. His footwork is a dance against drowning in fur.
Clarion’s mace swings high—but the rats twist and scatter just before contact, as if taunting. A blur of movement, and—
SFX: CRACK!
SILVERLEAF (gasps): “Fleetwood! I—I didn’t—!”
Fleetwood reels, staggered by the misplaced blow. Blood darkens his cloak.
Greegan charges into the mass, snarling. His boot stomps, cracking tiny bones. His dagger flashes between squeals—left, right, gut, throat, eye. Then—his knees hit the street.
GREEGAN (retching): “Spirits below… the smell…”
He collapses beside the heap of twitching vermin, bile mixing with blood.
[EXT. QUIET STREET – LATER]
The swarm lies vanquished. Burnt fur. Ragged breath. Paranoia thick in the silence. Each shadow on the wall twists like it’s watching them.
CLARION (half-whisper): “They didn’t run. Not even when they started to burn…”
SILVERLEAF (shaking): “They were obeying. Something… Someone… the land.”
Fleetwood wipes his blade clean, jaw clenched. Greegan spits and pulls a rag over his mouth. They say nothing.
A muffled murmur drifts on the mist—a crowd. The party rounds the bend and sees a mob of Barovians moving in solemn purpose, heading south.
The party exchanges a glance. No words. Just movement. They follow.
[EXT. THE BURGOMASTER’S MANSION – CONTINUOUS]
The wrought-iron gates rise from the fog like fangs. Before them—torches, shouting, townsfolk pressed close. A barricade of pitchforks and oil. On the mansion steps: figures in tense silhouette. No one crosses the line. Not yet.
FLEETWOOD (low): “Looks like the rats weren’t the only thing ready to bite tonight.”
[SMASH CUT TO:]
The wrought-iron gates of the manor stand closed. Moss curls from their hinges like old scabs. Lantern light flickers against pitted stone and warped shutters. Behind the gate, Barovia’s last stronghold looms, silent.
From the fog, the villagers emerge—no marching order, just rising fury. Calloused hands grip axes dulled by time, pitchforks bent at the tines, rusting blades, and yes—brooms. The kind used to beat dust from rugs, now clutched like cudgels to make ghosts bleed.
At the head of the mob stands a woman. Mid-sixties. Sharp-cheeked. All bone and fury and years unwept. Her wavy brown hair is tied back with a white bandana stained the color of old clouds. She is not tall, but no one stands taller. (Think Harriet Walter in a peasant dress, angrily wielding a broom)
She raises the broom. Not high, not for show—just enough to be seen.
ALENKA: (voice dry, unyielding): “Enough silence. Enough waiting. We buried twelve yesterday. I counted. Twelve. I sewed their shrouds.”
A murmur runs through the crowd—not cheers, not yet. But the kind of sound that shifts from fear to fury.
ALENKA: “They lock their doors and hoard their fire oil. Fine. But they will hear us. Tonight.”
One young man shifts nervously beside her, eyes darting to the upper windows. A candle flickers there—then snuffs out.
YOUNG MAN: “They say the girl’s inside. The one marked.”
ALENKA (spits into the dirt): “She’s not the first marked by shadows. And what did keeping silent win us? Graves too shallow and nights too long.” (Shouts) "Give her up, Kolyan. Your defenses have held the Devil at bay, but he's still out there. It's time to take matters into our own hands."
The heavy door creaks open, groaning like it resents the effort. Torchlight spills out, catching the glint of lacquered floorboards and dust motes that shiver in midair. For a moment, the crowd outside hushes—not in reverence, but in uncertainty.
And then he appears.
THE BURGOMASTER. (Portrayed by Bryan F. O’byrne) Fine clothes hang from a frame too worn to carry them. Rich plum velvet soaked through in places, the hem torn and trailing ash. His cane clicks against the stone as he limps forward, every step deliberate. Every step borrowed.
Bandages wind around his body like shrouds too late for burial—bloody, brown-edged, fresh in places. His forehead glistens with sweat. Behind his pale eyes: a man long past fear, propped up by stubbornness alone.
[CLOSE SHOT: HIS EYES] Clouded. Not with illness—but exhaustion. And yet they still hold something that refuses to yield.
A second figure steps into the light.
Backround music shifts again: Ireena Kolyana (Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Theme | Loop
IREENA. (Perhaps portrayed by Thomasin McKenzie) Hair like fire in the torch glow, bound tight. Armor dulled by soot and desperate travel. A single dent mars the breastplate where something monstrous struck too hard—but not hard enough.
Her right hand hovers near her rapier, fingers taut, ready. But it’s the stillness of her left—the clenched fist, white-knuckled at her side—that betrays the tension anchoring her spine.
[WIDE SHOT: THE THRESHOLD] The old man leans, wheezing, eyeing the crowd through half-lidded caution. The young woman stands unmoving, a sentinel carved from urgency and dread. Behind them, the darkness of the manor waits. Watching.
KOLYAN INDIROVICH: "Go home, Alenka. And all the rest of you. As long as I am Burgomaster, I will not permit this madness."
CLARION: (blunt) "What in Thanatos' name is going on here?"
[SLOW REVEAL – THE PARTY EMERGES FROM THE FOG]
Their silhouettes grow from shadow—tattered cloaks dragging, boots caked in filth, blades not yet cleaned. Fleetwood leads, jaw set, rat entrails streaked down his front like trophies. Clarion's mace drips something foul. Greegan staggers slightly, more gore than man. Silverleaf walks as if carrying the heat of fire still in her chest. Felonious follows last, smoke still curling from his hands.
The smell hits first. Burning fur. Blood. Alchemical char.
[REACTION SHOTS – THE MOB] One man stares, mouth parted. A woman lowers her pitchfork with unconscious reverence. Even Alenka’s fingers slip from her broom just slightly. A collective hush falls, brittle as frost.
YOUNG VILLAGER (wide-eyed whisper): “They walked through it…”
OLD MAN (under his breath): “Gods preserve… what did they walk through?”
[ON THE STEPS]
The Burgomaster squints. His brow furrows—not in suspicion, but in awe. He leans harder on his cane, blinking as if uncertain the figures he sees are real.
KOLYAN: "If you're with them, I'm not changing my mind! I don't care how many thugs they get."
GIRL: "Father, can you not see they are strangers here?"
[CLOSE-UP – GREEGAN] His expression slackens. Mouth ajar. For half a beat too long. Rat blood crusts his face, a dark smear runs down his arm, and his cloak clings askew. But none of it registers. Not yet. Not in the moment she turns and looks directly at him.
FLEETWOOD: "We were sent by Ismark Kolyanovich. We just ran into a small… mishap on the way."
KOLYAN: (dubious tone) "You'll have to do better than that before you're invited in here."
FELONIOUS: (sincere) "I don't even know how we got here to be honest, but we just want to help. We've no part of… whatever this is."
ALENKA: (sounding honestly scared) "What I propose is not madness. It's common sense. Legends say the Devil loves to prey on red-haired women. If we give her to him, he will leave us alone."
FLEETWOOD: (angrily) "We're not giving anyone to a devil!"
KOLYAN: "Indeed, you are not! And you, Alenka, are a fool if you think surrendering Ireena, or anyone else, will appease the Devil of Castle Ravenloft! We are Barovians, and Barovians do not turn on their own!"
ALENKA: "But she isn't a Barovian! Everyone knows you found her, wandering in the woods as a child. Who knows where she came from? She could be from beyond the mist for all we know. She isn't one of us."
GREEGAN: "I didn't know that." (Shrugs)
Everyone ignores him. Several of the people with Alenka murmur in agreement with her, though.
ALENKA: (Continues) "And if you are going to choose her over us, neither are you!"
Two of the men with her take a step closer to the mansion, brandishing their weapons.
FLEETWOOD: (sharply) "Get back."
Kolyan takes a step outside the mansion, and nearly crumples from his wounds. Ireena catches him, and with her other hand points her rapier at the assembled mob.
IREENA: "You will not lay a hand on my father!"
Fleetwood pushes himself between the mob and the mansion's gates.
FLEETWOOD: "Back away!"
Clarion pushes her way in beside him, clearly willing to back him up whatever the mob does. The assembled peasants waver against the two armored figures, but don't back down.
GREEGAN (calm and soothing): "Now, I see you good folk have some concerns, and frankly I don't blame you. We just got done playing with some rats that seemed a bit too hungry, if you know what I mean. Something really bad is going on here, I can see that. But I don't think turning on your good Burgomaster is going to be the answer - and I certainly don't want to go feeding anyone to some devil. I think the best thing we all can do is to help Ismark."
ALENKA: "Ismark the Lesser!" (Spits)
GREEGAN: "Yeah, people do that a lot. He seems like a good bloke, though. Heart's in the right place, if nothing else. And I sure don't look to join the dead out there!" (He points toward the barricades)
ALENKA: "You don't know what that monster is capable of!"
GREEGAN: "And he doesn't know what we're capable of either."
ALENKA: "You are wrong! He always knows! The rats, they spy for him. And other things."
FELONIOUS: "This creature doesn't sound like the type to accept appeasement. I think battening down the hatches may be your best chance against him. Besides, he hasn't tested our mettle yet. He may find he's bitten off more than even he can chew."
SILVERLEAF: "There will be no presents for the monster today."
The air is brittle with tension. The torches spit and crackle as the armored silhouettes of Fleetwood and Clarion form a gleaming wall before the gates—unyielding, unmoved.
The mob falters. Pitchforks lower. Brooms twitch. Their scowls don’t vanish—but their hands grow a little less certain.
[SFX: Low murmurs, feet shuffling on cobblestone. Someone coughs.]
Greegan’s words linger like heat after a fire—steady, warm, and uncomfortably honest.
[CLOSE SHOT – ALENKA] Jaw tight. Hands clenched. She glares up at Ireena with a fire born from grief and something deeper—betrayal, maybe.
Her lip curls. She spits again, though this time without words. Then, without fanfare, she turns and stalks off into the dark, others trailing after like smoke. One by one, the crowd breaks, their courage unraveling as quickly as it had gathered.
[INTIMATE – FELONIOUS AND FLEETWOOD]
Felonious leans in, voice low and dry.
FELONIOUS: “I think it best we keep an eye on that one. She may cause trouble when this ‘devil’ comes calling.”
FLEETWOOD (watching the retreating figures): “Agreed.”
[IREENA – WITHOUT A WORD]
She moves swiftly, unlocking the iron gate with a practiced hand. The hinges groan in protest as it swings inward, revealing the battered garden beyond.
IREENA (clipped but not unkind): “Inside. Quickly.”
[EXT. MANOR GROUNDS – CONTINUOUS]
Fleetwood moves to Kolyan’s side before the old man can take more than a step. The Burgomaster tries to wave him off, pride flickering behind his pain—but it’s no use. He leans into Fleetwood’s support.
Clarion kneels by his side almost before they’ve cleared the gate, her hands already moving with the precision of a seasoned healer.
CLARION (softly): “Hold still. Let’s make sure the wound’s not opened again.”
Kolyan chuckles—raspy, broken.
KOLYAN: “If it has, I promise not to blame you until I’ve bled out.”
She gives him a look. It’s somewhere between a smile and a scolding.
[WIDE SHOT – GATES CLOSING]
The gates creak shut once more, locking the darkness out. Or perhaps, locking it in with them.
In the distance, the mob melts into the village like it was never there at all. Only Alenka's final glare lingers, hovering behind Ireena like a storm cloud not quite spent.
[CUT TO: INTERIOR - BURGOMASTER’S MANSION - DAY]
KOLYAN: "I am Kolyan Indirovich, Burgomaster of Barovia. And this is my daughter, Ireena. Please, save whatever power you receive from your god to protect our village. Next to my people, my life is nothing."
CLARION: "I don't think you understand my method."
Laying her hand on him, she draws his hurt into herself, and then channels it away - most of it. Fleetwood can't help but see how she blanches as she does so. But the Burgomaster's pained face eases, and Ireena stares in absolute wonderment.
FLEETWOOD: "Love, are you all right?"
CLARION: "I will be, my only." (She touches his concerned face) "I need only a short rest."
KOLYAN: (Utterly amazed) "Then you must stay, and dine with us. It isn't much, but you are welcome to share it."
[INT. BURGOMASTER’S MANSION – AFTERNOON]
The camera glides slowly through the threshold, crossing from mist-choked street into the uneasy hush of the manor’s interior.
🕯️ Lighting & Atmosphere
Soft amber candlelight flickers against dark-paneled walls, casting long shadows that stretch like clawmarks across carpet and stone. The glow gives warmth, but never comfort—there’s something beneath it, coiled and waiting.
🏛️ Furnishings & Decay
Furniture: Once-stately armchairs and velvet drapes show signs of fraying. Upholstery is worn thin where generations once sat or paced, and the rug is faded into ghostly outlines of its former pattern.
Portraits: Faded oil paintings watch from the walls with crackling eyes. Their gilt frames are tarnished, some crooked as though nudged by trembling hands or something unseen.
Flooring: Wooden floorboards groan with each step, speaking of rot beneath polish.
🪟 Boarded Windows
Thick wooden planks crisscross every window, nailed hastily but repeatedly. Light filters through the slits, casting sharp beams that look more like bars than sunlight.
Some planks bear dark stains—wax? Blood? Time has blurred the difference.
🕯️ Holy Symbols
In every room—without exception—symbols of faith cling to the walls.
A silver sunburst above the hearth.
A prayer-etched amulet nailed to the inside of the door.
Wax-sealed scrolls tucked into windowsills, their inscriptions faded but purposeful.
None match each other—no single doctrine reigns here. It is protection by volume, not conviction. Like someone pleading with every god to answer, because no one knows which might.
[INT. BURGOMASTER’S MANOR – DINING ROOM – NIGHT]
The dining room creaks with the weight of memory—dark walnut paneling lined with faded family portraits, and a long table ringed with mismatched chairs. At the far end, a hearth glows low, the only source of warmth in a house that feels like it’s bracing for siege.
KOLYAN (with effort, motioning them in): “Come. Sit. If you’ve walked through Barovia today, you’ve earned more than firelight.”
He winces as he moves to pull a chair, and Fleetwood gently steers him aside, doing it for him. Clarion remains close, still watching him with clinical worry.
[CAMERA TRACKS LEFT]
Ireena stands at the hearth, sleeves rolled, stirring a black iron pot suspended over the coals. The scent hits first—rich, earthy. Game meat simmered with root vegetables and bay leaves. She doesn’t speak yet, only ladles with slow precision, jaw set, eyes heavy.
One by one, she places bowls before them. Steam curls into the air like spirits dispersing.
IREENA (softly, without fanfare): “Rabbit. Caught it this morning. Turnips came from the cellar. I’d offer bread if we had any that didn’t bite back.”
She meets Greegan’s eye briefly, that faint smirk still lingering from the gate—but it fades just as quickly.
The party settles. Wooden chairs groan. For a moment, the flicker of firelight makes everything feel distant, like this could be any table in any village… if not for the boarded windows, the bloodied bandages, and the strange way the house listens.
SILVERLEAF (smelling the stew): “I didn’t know Barovia had food that didn’t curse you.”
KOLYAN (dry): “Only the kind that talks back. You'll let me know if the turnips do, won't you?”
A beat of silence. Then—laughter. Not loud. Not long. But real.
The camera drifts low over the dinner table, past half-finished bowls of stew and flickering candlelight, until it finds KOLYAN seated at the head—gaunt, blood seeping faintly beneath his fresh dressing, but eyes sharp and searching.
KOLYAN (measured, grave): “Tell me… would you be willing to provide some outside perspective on a problem which vexes me?”
CLARION straightens, attentive and resolute.
CLARION: “Of course.”
FELONIOUS offers a slow, thoughtful nod, tapping one finger on the side of his goblet.
Kolyan reaches beneath the table and retrieves a battered scrollcase. He lays a frayed, stained map across the surface—creased so deeply that time has etched folds into the paper like scars. The camera zooms in, focusing on the hand-drawn depiction of Barovia: winding roads, the Old Svalich threading like a vein across the parchment, the River Ivlis cutting its course.
KOLYAN (grim): “Each night, dozens of undead attack our defenses. We lose people. The walls weaken. And yet… they do not come in force. They arrive in small waves. Dispersed. Unpatterned. As though by whim. Each attack lands somewhere different, and seldom at once.”
He looks up, eyes glittering.
KOLYAN: “What do you make of this?”
There’s a pause as the group leans closer.
FELONIOUS (lips twitching wryly): “Well, I’m not that adept at thinking like a necromancer, but—”
FLEETWOOD (cutting in, pointing his dagger’s tip to a spot on the map): “Destruction of your defenses isn’t the goal. It’s like a mountebank’s trick. You distract the mark here.”
The table shifts slightly as all eyes turn to GREEGAN.
GREEGAN (grinning faintly): “While you steal what’s… somewhere else.”
IREENA, who’s remained quietly attentive, suddenly speaks. Her voice is cautious, unsure.
IREENA: “But where?”
She immediately notices the turn of heads, the attention, and shrinks back slightly into her chair.
GREEGAN (gently): “There’s the trick. Figuring out where the cookie jar is, and whose hand is in it. What’s the big baddie want, then?”
KOLYAN (voice lowering): “He says he wants revenge. For Doru’s rebellion. He sends them—these things—to punish us. But our scouts… they’ve seen hundreds more in the trees. They could overwhelm us. Easily. And yet… by the Morninglord’s mercy, they do not.”
A long beat.
FLEETWOOD (quiet but firm): “Because destruction isn’t the only prize. It’s the noise. The misdirection. He wants something else—and everyone here better stay sharp, because he’s not going to show his real hand… until he thinks we’re too tired to stop him.”
The candle flames flicker low. A faint wind howls outside, rattling the boarded windows like fingers tapping for entry.
[INT. BURGOMASTER’S MANOR – DINING ROOM – NIGHT]
The fire dims low behind the grate. Kolyan sits at the head of the table, breath shallow, fingers trembling slightly as he holds his quill. His eyes, however, remain sharp as flint.
KOLYAN (softly): “Tell me… should we survive this night, do you intend to travel to any of the other settlements?”
The fire pops. Silence stretches.
FELONIOUS (measured, deliberate): “If they provide a way to return to our home—yes.”
IREENA looks up from where she gathers bowls, her expression momentarily unguarded. She smiles at Felonious—something light blooming in the gloom.
IREENA: “Is it truly so bad here?”
FELONIOUS (with the faintest tilt of humor): “Perhaps it will grow on me.”
A beat. GREEGAN glances sideways at Felonious, brow raised, something bristling beneath the grin he half-conceals. Jealousy, maybe. Or surprise that anyone could see charm in a land of wolves and whispers.
KOLYAN, meanwhile, folds a parchment with practiced care—his pen scrawling across it with stiff, looping letters. The CAMERA HOVERS just long enough to catch his name and a broken wax seal left in his coat pocket.
KOLYAN: “I can’t promise anything. It’s been… years since I left the village proper. But this may open the ears of the other Burgomasters.” (He shrugs, weary.)
“Lady Clarion, I offer you and your companions the hospitality of my house.”
He looks to Ireena.
KOLYAN: “Ireena—if you would show them to the guest rooms.”
CLARION (bowing her head slightly): “Thank you, your honor.”
[INT. HALLWAY – DAY]
The floorboards creak under bootsteps as IREENA leads them past oil paintings with cracked varnish and fading family crests. The walls seem to breathe. The house hums with the weight of absence.
IREENA (quiet, almost embarrassed): “Again… I must apologize for the state of the house. Father, Ismark, and I—we do what we can. But none of us are half the keeper my mother was. Since she passed, it has languished.”
FELONIOUS (pauses, quizzical): “Those people outside—they said Kolyan isn’t your blood father?”
IREENA pauses at a doorframe. Her hand lingers on the knob.
IREENA: “No. That’s no secret. He’s told me the story many times—how he found me ‘at the very pillarstone of Ravenloft’. But he is the only father I remember. And Barovia the only home I know. I am Ireena Kolyana. And that is who I choose to be.”
She turns—measured, firm. Then softens again as she glances between Fleetwood and Clarion.
IREENA: “You are… together?” (A warm smile.) “You can stay here.” (She nods to a door on the left.) “You two will be in here,” (to Felonious and Greegan, who exchange a mildly disgruntled glance.) “And I suppose, then, that you’ll stay with me,” (to Silverleaf, with a ghost of a grin.)
SILVERLEAF (smiling faintly): “I suppose I shall.”
Greegan snorts under his breath. Felonious smooths his coat with theatrical indifference.
IREENA (gentle): “I don’t know how much sleep you’ll get… if any. But you’re welcome to try.”
[INT. GUEST ROOM – FLEETWOOD AND CLARION – Day]
The room is modest. A quilted bed. A cracked mirror. One candle flickering beside a shuttered window.
Fleetwood sets his pack down, his armor creaking softly as he turns to Clarion.
FLEETWOOD (quietly): “It was a great thing you did for Kolyan. But now—you need to rest. Before the night comes. I’ll guard you.”
CLARION (exhausted, but smiling): “You need rest too.”
FLEETWOOD:
“I’ll rest… when everyone is safe.”
Their shadows sway across the wall. Neither moves toward sleep.
[INT. GUEST ROOM – FELONIOUS AND GREEGAN – MOMENTS LATER]
The room is darker here. No candle lit. Just dim light sneaking through slats.
Felonious sets down his pack—then freezes. Something flutters under his boot. A scrap of paper. He crouches, fingers brushing it up.
The CAMERA FOCUSES as he raises it toward the window. Dust motes drift around the title:
Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires.
GREEGAN (leaning in):
“What’s that?”
FELONIOUS (brow creasing): “Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires. Or so it says.”
GREEGAN: “Familiar with it?”
FELONIOUS: “Never heard of it before. And it feels like I should have.”
GREEGAN : “Vampires, eh? Think there’s any of those around here?”
FELONIOUS (quiet, settling the pages on a warped desk): “I don’t know… but I rather suspect we’ll run into some. Otherwise… why would someone here be studying them?”
He lights a candle. The flame flares, briefly illuminating the edges of strange diagrams—fang shapes, symbols of warding, annotations in faded ink.
FELONIOUS: “Perhaps we should do the same.”
The camera pulls back as they begin reading, the flame flickering beneath their murmured voices—and somewhere, faintly, a floorboard creaks.
FADE OUT.
End Credits play over: If I Was Your Vampire-Lyrics
Your take on COS is excellent. Really enjoying the scripted style and accompanying music. Thx so much!