Before, those hazy days with their bruised ever-darkening skies, Morrigan would have put words in his mouth that would all have come from Wynne. Even now in so many ways it's impossible to divorce Wynne from the Circle, from all of what a Circle mage should be from their talks as sharp as Morrigan could be throughout them all, some old woman sticking her nose in where it wasn't wanted. Magic to be cleaned up or kept in some forbidden restricted volume, much like a grimoire given to her as a key in a lock.

Bruce is not Wynne, the Circles have cracked and crumbled, and Morrigan has grown.

The staff comes down in a move to clear ambient magic as she considers it with a grim little smile. "My first experience of a Circle contained far more demons and abominations present than I understood to be permitted within such strict oversight. Twas my mother who taught me."

Mana restored, she ices one dummy, watches it trail down over the head and 'arms' and to the ground. The lightning shatters the ice to pieces. "Unless you mean to stand in the way of a spell, you are not a problem."