Have you ever watched an owl perched in a high branch? The particular way one ever so slowly turns its head to an angle that doesn't quite seem natural? Something about the way Morrigan looks at him and holds herself carries the suggestion of it.

"I have seen my share of them." Some, she thinks, might have been little better than the village butcher called in at a time of crisis in some cases, perhaps the blacksmith. "Ever this insistence on shrinking away; an admission of pride in oneself and skill does not mean baring your neck to the demons." That's about as gentle an admonishment as Morrigan can make it in all honesty, as if he's being more than a little ridiculous but she can't quite understand it. The only time she plays at false modesty is if she has ever wished for some sort of praise, when she's wanted to play coy.

Mostly she's past that. Not that she would admit it, she'd wrap someone in webbing from the rafters in the main hall before she did.