He'd turned as Hawke reached to pluck the improvised 'torches' from among their glowing kin, because as far as his priorities were concerned they'd scavenged up a useful thing from the muck (story of his life) and now he really needed to do something about that fucking noise because the novelty didn't seem to be wearing off anytime soon for the party mage. That's when the problem at last solves itself - and perhaps fortunately so, because it means Styx doesn't have to spend time arguing with a guy that can turn him into toasted goblin with a gesture.

(Escape a continent full of bonfires only to end up torched in the end anyhow. Funny old world.)

Not that he's going to fall all over himself to be sympathetic either, and when he catches the words over the slowly fading screams he sighs and shakes his head. "You brought that on yourself, you know. I just hope you got that shit outta your syste--fuck, what?"

He turns back sharply, one dagger already in hand, looking for whatever probably-life-threatening thing Hawke just noticed.