The Dance
This is the result of a little self-challenge to take a Baldur’s Gate 3 scene as it appears in the game, using only the actions and dialogue that is actually shown on-screen, and explore it a bit deeper. This is the famous dance scene with Wyll in Act 2. Some slight spoilers but nothing huge.
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The overnight camp was ringed by torches, lit to keep the hungry shadows at bay. In the darkness, the flames glowed with a warm copper light that seemed almost homely against the cold bleakness beyond. Above, when the dense clouds occasionally parted, a few distant stars shone out with a silver gleam like coins tossed in a wishing well.
The weary travellers were mostly sleeping, or reading in their tents, huddled away from the bone-chilling cold and soul-numbing darkness of this cursed place they had come to. But Tempest could not sleep. Nightmares again, getting worse each step of the journey, were weighing heavily on her mind. Visions of storm and lightning and death flashed behind her eyes night after night, showing her worst fears – her own powers, born of grief, twisted by rage, and unleashed on those she had come to think of by now as her friends.
Slipping on her soft leather shoes, Tempest decided a brief walk around the quiet campsite might help clear her head. Moving towards the central campfire, she saw a horned figure, silhouetted by the flames, swaying slowly in rhythmic gestures, arms raised then lowered, legs stepping and crossing.
Wyll danced in the firelight, to the sound of music only he could hear. His steps were surprisingly delicate, his feet flitting lightly over the stony ground. He was lost in a moment, and there, in the amber glow, flame and shadow dancing with him, highlighting his form and features, glistening on his skin, Tempest noticed how handsome – no, how beautiful, he was. His recently acquired horns, curling majestically over his head, only added to his striking appearance.
She thought back to that night at the party, after they’d saved the Grove, when Wyll hid himself away from the celebration. The night they kissed, tentatively and briefly, but with an undeniable passion, an undercurrent just beneath the surface. Tempest stood in silence for a moment, just out of the circle of light, and watched him dance.
Feeling awkward, not wanting to be seen staring, Tempest coughed gently to let Wyll know she was there.
“Nice form”, she began, “where’d you learn to dance like that?”
Wyll didn’t miss a beat, but pirouetted gracefully to face her, his one red eye glinting like a ruby in the firelight. Tempest could feel her cheeks getting hot, emotions rising dangerously.
“I’ve attended my share of fancy balls and masquerades”, he said. “A few elegant moves can turn all the right heads”. He smiled slightly, meeting Tempest’s eyes. “Figured it was time to brush up on my skills. I wouldn’t want to fail my new partner”.
“A new partner?”, Tempest asked, suppressing an uncharacteristically flirtatious giggle. Pull yourself together, she thought. “And who might that be?”
“As luck would have it, she just arrived”, Wyll replied, bowing low and gesturing with his outstretched hand. “May I have this dance?”
Tempest smiled, returned the bow, and took Wyll’s hand in her own. Together, they moved closer to the firelight.
Wyll danced around her, like some exotic bird in a courtship display. His body moved sinuously, seductively. He bowed again, and gestured for her to take her turn.
In her mind, Tempest recalled the dances she attended growing up, the diplomatic balls and fancy evenings when she was dragged along by her parents, made to wear an uncomfortable dress and tame her wild dark hair, and be seen and not heard. The memory stung. She knew the steps though, some things you never forget. Not wanting to get carried away, Tempest performed a simple cadence, a basic routine, staid and old-fashioned.
“Brava!” Wyll exclaimed, as if she had performed ballet at the Neverwinter opera house. Feeling flustered and a little self-conscious, Tempest smiled nervously, meeting Wyll’s gaze briefly then looking away.
“Now, perhaps we might try a more – intimate style” Wyll asked, testing the boundary of this moment.
Hand in hand, they danced slowly together, feet moving in time, breathing in synchrony. Tempest could almost hear the music, low and romantic, while the fire crackled and the wind whistled in the cold air. Moving closer together, their bodies touching, Tempest shivered, the electricity in her veins humming. Wyll’s embrace was strong but gentle, and he was warm, and smelled of jasmine, wine, and woodsmoke.
She could fall in love, Tempest thought. Right here, in this moment, if she let herself. Was love even possible here, in this barren lifeless place? Was it possible for them, as they walked each day to their doom? She let herself dream, if only for a while. A dream of another life, of dancing with Wyll forever.
~~~
As the dance ends, Tempest decides right there to let her emotions carry her, and she presses her lips against Wyll’s. She slows her breathing, conscious to control the spark within, not wanting to shock him with a touch. He reciprocates the kiss and the world stands still.
Fire and ice and lightning and warmth and danger and safety.
Tempest swims in this moment, dances in the stars, losing herself and finding herself all at once.
For a moment, there is no tadpole in their brains, no Absolute, no shadow curse. There is only this kiss, unstoppable.
Wyll reluctantly moves his head away, but only so he can gaze at Tempest’s face, her eyes like moonstones, her white hair shining in the evening glow.
“So much shadow around us”, he says, “to think I almost missed the light”. He pauses, straightening up and sighing slightly. “Well, it’s getting late. We can’t face the morrow if we don’t bid farewell to the now”.
Tempest smiles at his archaic language, like a prince from a storybook tale. It’s now or never, she thinks, just go for it. “I was hoping we might spend the night…together,” she says.
“I’m tempted, trust me”, Wyll replies, “I thought my heart might burst with every step. But – I still keep faith in the old tales of love, the once-upon-a-times and the happily-ever-afters”. He hesitates. “I’d like to do this the proper way. The way of the old romances sung by the bards”.
Tempest feels frustration, but it melts away in Wyll’s adoring gaze. This is worth the wait, she knows it. She’s had flings before, of course she has, but she’s never felt close to anyone, never really let anyone in. But this strange old-fashioned beautiful man standing before her? He might just be something more, something real. She sighs, and kisses him once more, before stepping back.
“‘Til next time, then”, Wyll says in his smooth low voice. “Goodnight – and dream sweetly”.
For once, Tempest thinks, she will.
———
Note: OK, we’re skipping way ahead from the prologue of “One Last Job” but I’ve not written these scenes in order. But basically – Tempest’s smuggling job for the Zhentarim goes sideways (shocker) and that’s what leads to her being embroiled in the events of BG3. This scene here though was the point when, playing the game, I realised that Tempest’s story wasn’t about adventures and swashbuckling, but was at heart a love story.