All while Michael is talking, Morrighan just stares. It's a look of unamusement (which is really her typical expression anyways) with a brow raised. He's just going on and on, almost as if on purpose so he doesn't actually get to a story. Is he afraid? A pathological liar who's claimed this whole time to be a storyteller? Is he just screwing with her? She takes another sip of her drink.He says he doesn't think in straight enough lines for stories and this makes her laugh. "Clearly," she snorts. "This whole time you've just been going in circles." It could be the booze also.
At the least, it's the booze making her feel warm and less guarded. It's like the fog in her mind has dissipated and slowly, slowly, the fiery rage is too. Although every once and a while, she can see the flickering of the fireplace in the corner of her eye, its callings to her are more muffled. Maybe this is why some become drunks- they can forget for a little, even if it's losing a part of themselves for the time being.
Then to her surprise, Michael dares her to try him. Shouldn't she be daring him? Apparently the tables have turned and she's taken aback for a moment. What did she want to hear a story about? When she asked him, there was never really a topic she had in mind, she just wanted to hear how shitty of a story it was.
"Tell me a love story," Morrighan blurts out, slightly slurred. Apparently the first thing to come to mind for "shitty stories" is a love story.
How appropriate.
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