Opening credits play over: Transylvania 1887
OPENING CREDITS (Revised: “Within Vallaki”) Melodic War Productions presents:
🕯️ 0:00–0:08 | Title Reveal: The Lantern Settles A lantern sways above Vallaki’s gate—its flame steady, but dimmer now, as if bracing for what’s already inside. Boot prints converge in muddied cobblestone. A ribbon, once tied to a skeletal tree, now hangs limp from the hinge—frayed, faded, forgotten. A deck of cards lies scattered on the guardhouse floor, half-buried in ash. The screen exhales: VALLAKI, etched into a rusted plaque. The camera pans upward—walls tall, torches guttering, rooftops hunched like shoulders in the cold.
🌲 0:09–0:20 | The Town Breathes The gates creak wider. Inside: narrow streets, shuttered windows, festival banners limp in the wind. A child watches from behind a curtain. A raven lands on a rooftop, caws once, then vanishes. A hand—weathered, ringed, trembling—reaches into frame and turns over a card nailed to the gatepost: The Artifact. A charm of bone and braid dangles from the latch, spinning slowly—this time, with no wind at all.
🚶♂️ 0:21–0:33 | The Travelers Within The wanderers move through the gate, marked not by arrival—but by intrusion:
Fleetwood (Richard Armitage) walks with his blade half-drawn, eyes scanning windows now, not treetops.
Clarion (Gwendoline Christie) moves like a storm held in check, her shield catching torchlight like a warning.
Silverleaf (Tatiana Maslany) watches the raven above, fingers brushing stone walls like reading a forgotten language.
Felonious (Ben Whishaw) mutters incantations—quieter, sharper—the air around him twitching with restrained magic.
Greegan (Matt Ryan) rolls bone dice on a windowsill. They clatter once. The Beast. The Broken One.
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 | The Fortunes Shift Again The scattered cards rise again—this time inside the town. Five remain suspended: The Artifact. The Beast. The Innocent. The Broken One. The Darklord. As each is drawn, the town reacts—windows slam shut, bells toll once, a scream echoes from somewhere unseen. Behind the cards, Strahd’s silhouette flickers—reflected in a puddle, distorted by ripples.
🎵 0:59–1:10 | Final Note: The Gate Closes The party walks deeper into Vallaki. The gate creaks shut behind them. The final card lands in Clarion’s hand: The Innocent. The ravens above scatter. The fog curls into the shape of a noose—then dissipates. The road no longer leads forward. It coils inward.
🎼 Main Title by Alan Silvestri
COLD OPEN BEGINS:
Background Music: Blue Water Inn | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Tavern Music & Ambience
INT. BLUE WATER INN — TAPROOM — NIGHT
Golden lanternlight bleeds through smoke-stained rafters, casting halos on warped wood and worn faces. The air hums with laughter — too rehearsed, too bright. Beneath it, something listens. Something waits.
The door creaks open.
Six silhouettes stand framed in fog, road-worn and wary. They hesitate — shadows against firelight — before stepping into Vallaki’s last illusion of sanctuary.
ANGLE ON: THE TAPROOM
The room pulses with life. Too much life. Laughter fractures the air like glass. Smiles stretch a little too wide. Every gesture feels staged, like actors in a play they dare not stop performing.
DANIKA DORAKOVA (Ruth Negga) She glides through the crowd like a blade wrapped in silk. Her tray balances frothing mugs and silent judgment. Black curls pinned tight, eyes tighter. She smiles — just enough to be polite, never enough to be safe.
DANIKA :“Seats by the hearth are lucky tonight. Or cursed. Depends what you carry.”
UNWIN MARTIKOV (David Dastmalchian) From the kitchen: clang, hiss, a muttered curse. He emerges in a cloud of steam and skepticism. Compact, sharp-edged, flour-dusted. His scowl is permanent, but the way he watches Danika — there’s softness buried deep.
UNWIN: “If they ask for stew again, tell ‘em this one bites back.”
CENTER TABLE — THEATRICAL CHAOS
Background Music shifts: Rictavio (Theme) | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Thematic Orchestral Music | Loop
RICTAVIO (Matt Berry) Velvet coat, gleaming monocle, voice like thunder dipped in honey. He spins a tale — something absurd about a haunted goat and a cursed cabbage vendor. The crowd roars. Coins clink into the tricorne hat at his feet.
RICTAVIO: “…and that’s when she realized — she’d married the wrong ghost!”
KARL WACHTER (Jack Lowden) Half-slumped, shirt misaligned, face flushed with drink and delight. He laughs like he’s trying to forget something.
NIKOLAI WACHTER (George Blagden) A shadow in human shape. He murmurs Barovian verse to his wineglass, waiting for it to answer. Madness flickers behind his eyes — eloquent, restrained, dangerous.
INT. BLUE WATER INN — TAPROOM — NIGHT
Firelight dances across warped beams and weary faces. Laughter echoes — too practiced. Mugs clink. Boots scrape. The door shuts behind the party, sealing out the mist like a held breath.
ANGLE ON: GREEGAN
He leans against a support beam, posture loose, eyes sharp. One hand flicks dirt from beneath a fingernail. The other rests near his belt — not quite casual. His gaze moves in fragments: tankard reflections, windowglass warps, the glint of a dropped spoon.
He listens. To everything.
NEAR THE BAR — RICTAVIO IN FULL FLIGHT
A wooden spoon becomes a sword. His coat flares like a stage curtain. The tale — absurd, theatrical, irresistible — spills from him like wine.
RICTAVIO: “So there I am — soot-covered, crypt-lid beneath me, one boot missing, and a vampire bat wearing the other — and wouldn’t you know it, the goat still had the upper hoof!”
The Wachter brothers collapse in laughter. Wine spills. Karl wheezes. Nikolai quotes poetry to his glass between giggles.
Greegan smirks. Barely.
FROM THE KITCHEN — UNWIN MARTIKOV EMERGES
Flour-dusted, heat-flushed, eyes calculating. He sizes up the newcomers with a butcher’s precision — then grins, warm but not soft.
UNWIN: “Three silvers for stew. Bread’s included. Two for the good wine. Six for a bed upstairs — clean, warm-ish, and mostly bite-free.”
He hesitates. Rubs the back of his neck.
UNWIN (CONT'D) : “Or we could—”
DANIKA DORAKOVA APPEARS — A SHADOW WITH A TRAY
She moves like a secret kept too long. Her brow arches — sharp, amused, dangerous.
DANIKA: “Unwin! No more charity. Even if they arrive with juggling monkeys and tales of dueling banshees.”
Rictavio raises his mug in mock salute. His grin is feline. Guilty. Proud.
Unwin lifts his hands in surrender.
UNWIN : “Standard rates. Promise. Hospitality, not bankruptcy.”
Danika turns to the party. Her smile is a door — open just enough to step through, but never wide enough to see what’s inside.
DANIKA: “Stew’s hot. Bread’s fresh. Nightmares sleep outside.”
REACTIONS — A TAPESTRY OF UNEASE
Fleetwood nods, eyes scanning for exits.
Clarion murmurs thanks, already drifting toward the hearth.
Felonious studies a menu — conjured or stolen, hard to tell.
Silverleaf glances upward. The raven in the rafters shifts, feathers whispering secrets.
And Greegan…
…Greegan watches everything. And lets them think he sees nothing at all.
Cut to:
INT. BLUE WATER INN — TAPROOM — NIGHT
Firelight licks the walls. The crowd hums with laughter and wine. The timber groans like it’s leaning in to eavesdrop.
RICTAVIO Arms wide, voice booming, eyes gleaming.
RICTAVIO : “—and then the banshee whispers, ‘Wrong crypt, darling,’ and vanishes! Poof!”
The table explodes with laughter. A coin arcs into his tricorn hat. One Wachter boy nearly topples backward, then salutes the rafters like they applauded him.
ANGLE ON: GREEGAN
Lounging nearby, half-shadowed. One leg draped over the other. He claps — slow, deliberate, just sincere enough.
GREEGAN : “Not bad. You don’t just tell stories. You survive them.”
RICTAVIO Turns. Smile curling like smoke. He lowers his chin, eyes twinkling with velvet mischief.
RICTAVIO: “Oho. A flatterer. I adore flatterers. Do go on, Mister…?”
GREEGAN: “Greegan. And I like to know who’s worth listening to in a town like this.”
Rictavio flourishes an invisible cloak, crosses his legs, leans in like he’s about to sell secrets over champagne.
RICTAVIO: “Then listen close, treasure. Vallaki’s a masquerade — even the shadows wear masks.”
He ticks off names on gloved fingers.
RICTAVIO (CONT'D) : “The Baron — bless him — thinks joy is law and festivals are medicine. Arrests people for frowning. Very cheerful tyranny.”
KARL WACHTER Slams his mug.
KARL : “Festivals! Can’t even fake a smile without getting cuffed!”
NIKOLAI WACHTER Bleary-eyed, murmurs to his wine.
NIKOLAI : “He staged a parade with dancing scarecrows. One caught fire. Beautiful metaphor…”
RICTAVIO Sighs, then continues.
RICTAVIO: “Lady Fiona Wachter. Noble. Shrewd. Subtle as a noose in silk. Hosts poetry nights. Worships the vampire in velvet, if you catch my drift.”
The laughter dims. A hush flutters — not silence, just careful stillness.
RICTAVIO (CONT'D): “She’d gut this town for a dinner invite from Strahd. And I don’t mean as a guest.”
Another coin pings into the hat. Rictavio catches it midair, flicks it behind his back. It vanishes.
RICTAVIO (CONT'D): “St. Andral’s Church — the only place with bones stiff enough to keep the dark out. Assuming they stay buried.”
He leans closer. Voice drops, theatrical.
RICTAVIO (CONT'D): “ And the Martikovs…”
He glances toward the bar. Danika meets his eyes. Raises a brow like a blade.
RICTAVIO (CONT'D) : “…who serve wine and smiles and pretend not to see the wings in the rafters.”
GREEGAN Drums fingers on his mug. Every word logged. Every joke filed.
GREEGAN : “Sounds like this town’s a barrel of swords with a clown painted on the front.”
RICTAVIO: “Exactly!” (Grins like it’s a compliment.) “Welcome to Vallaki, darling. Keep your blade dry and your lies wetter.”
CAMERA LINGERS On the two men — one spinning, one unraveling. Both smiling too well for strangers.
INT. BLUE WATER INN — TAPROOM — NIGHT
Firelight flickers across warped beams. Somewhere, a violin plays — slow, mournful, like it’s remembering something it shouldn’t.
Rictavio lands another punchline. Laughter ripples. A coin arcs into his hat with a musical ping.
ANGLE ON: GREEGAN
He lifts his mug, eyes narrowing over the rim. His gaze slides toward the slouched duo beside the bard — flushed, frayed, and far too honest.
GREEGAN : (cool, easy) “You two seem to have strong opinions about all this... joy and justice. What’s your read on the town? Or is the wine doing the thinking?”
KARL WACHTER Cheeks blotched, shirt stained with something purple and suspicious. He blinks like he’s waking from a dream, then leans in with the gravity of a man about to deliver prophecy.
KARL : “Vallaki’s a masterpiece. A well-oiled smile machine.” (beat) “You frown, you get stocks. You cry, you get confetti.”
He raises his tankard in mock salute.
KARL (CONT'D): “All will be well… unless your face disagrees.”
NIKOLAI WACHTER Fingers steepled, posture theatrical. He tries for gravitas and lands somewhere between drunk philosopher and haunted choirboy.
NIKOLAI : “The Baron believes in joy like a priest believes in rain — if it doesn’t fall, he throws water on you anyway.” (beat) “And Lady Mother? She believes in worse things. But at least they bring better wine.”
Karl nods, solemn as a drunk monk.
KARL: “The secret is: no one’s in charge. Just puppets arguing over who gets to bite us first.”
Nikolai lifts his glass, eyes unfocused.
NIKOLAI : “Oh! And beware the smiling dolls. They remember everything.”
GREEGAN Smirks. Not sure if he’s been warned, insulted, or recruited. Possibly all three. But he’s entertained — and that’s dangerous.
CAMERA LINGERS On the trio. Firelight flickers. The violin wails. Somewhere above, the raven shifts in the rafters.
INT. BLUE WATER INN — TAPROOM — NIGHT
Mid-evening. Ale flows. Shadows stretch like gossip. The hearth glows, softening the bite of the street’s cold — but not its memory.
The Wachter brothers spill secrets like wine: laughter, half-truths, and theories about their mother’s flirtation with vampire nobility. Their voices rise, theatrical and unguarded.
ERNST LARNAK (Michael Stuhlbarg) Lurks just outside the firelight — not quite guest, not quite ghost. Late forties. Immaculate. Forgettable by design.
He moves like a second thought. Pale gloves. Charcoal coat. Wealth that folds into shadow. A man who’s spent a lifetime being overlooked — and weaponized it.
He sits at a corner table. Glass untouched. Stillness honed to a blade.
His eyes flick — Karl, Nikolai, Greegan. Watching how the newcomer works the room. That smile. That ease. That precision.
A twitch at his temple.
Too smooth. Too curious. Too good.
Ernst doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. He simply rises, collar drawn high, and slips through the taproom like smoke from a dying wick.
ANGLE ON: GREEGAN
He catches the movement in the corner of his eye — a sliver of coat, a gloved hand brushing the doorframe, a glance that meant nothing to everyone else... and everything to him.
His smile holds. But one foot shifts beneath the table. Weight redistributed. Instinct awakened.
GREEGAN (V.O.): “Watcher leaving the watch. No drink. No smile. That’s not a patron. That’s a problem.”
He doesn’t follow. Not yet.
Too many eyes. Too many unknowns.
He lets the stranger go.
CAMERA LINGERS On the empty corner table. The untouched glass. The firelight flickering like it’s trying to remember who was just there.
INT. BLUE WATER INN — UPPER LANDING — LATE EVENING
Background music shifts: With Or Without You
A narrow ledge at the top of the stairs. Too small for comfort. Just wide enough for two people tired of pretending they don’t miss each other.
The hallway breathes in candlelight. Snores murmur behind closed doors — strangers, companions, ghosts in borrowed beds. A single flame gutters in an iron sconce, casting shadows that flicker like second thoughts.
FLEETWOOD Sits with one shoulder against the wall, boots stretched out, mug cradled like a memory he hasn’t decided to keep. Half-empty. Or half-survived.
CLARION Arrives without sound. A wool shawl wrapped tight. Her braid unraveling where the day pulled too hard. She doesn’t speak. Not yet.
They look at each other. Briefly. Just long enough.
CLARION: (soft) “You always find the corners.”
FLEETWOOD: “Corners don’t ask questions. And they watch your back.”
He taps the rim of his mug against his knee. A quiet rhythm. A shield.
She sits beside him, knees drawn close. The silence stretches — not tense, just worn-in. Like a robe pulled over bare skin.
CLARION: “Our room’s warm. Blankets that don’t smell like rot.” (beat) “I almost forgot that was allowed.”
Fleetwood chuckles — dry, but real.
FLEETWOOD: “Guess you get used to mold in Barovia. It’s got better manners than most people.”
CLARION : “And fewer secrets.”
The candle flutters. Their shadows lean closer.
CLARION (CONT'D): “You did good today.”
She glances sideways. Not quite a smile. Just enough.
Fleetwood shifts. A wrinkle at the edge of his scar.
FLEETWOOD: “Didn’t hit anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
CLARION: (gentle tease) “Progress.”
Another pause. Her hand rests near his — not touching, but close enough to know it could.
CLARION (CONT'D): “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Her eyes stay on the flame.
Fleetwood nods. Gaze forward. Voice low.
FLEETWOOD: “No. We just have to keep showing up.”
Their hands find each other. Quietly. Palms worn. Fingers scarred. Touch soft.
Fade to black:
End credits continue over: With Or Without You