Getting nudged out of the way is-- what Dorian is beginning to expect, really, after however many months fighting in ramshackle bands of mage and warrior and archer. He twists like a surprised, butt-touched cat, all bristling indignation until he sees the jagged red lyrium striking the Chevalier's blade.

Oh. Well, that's alright.

Not to be outclassed, however, he drags his staff through the air, meeting resistance as if physically tearing the Veil itself, and sends a very precise, very strong lightning strike past Michel, raw electricity slamming hard enough into the Red Templar's chest to stagger him back. Errant streaks of shimmering green dispelling magics ripple up off pulsing flesh and lyrium shards, for good measure, and Dorian turns a look at Michel.

"Slay your demon," he says, sharp and to the point. Which doesn't sound very much like thank you, or anything, but maybe his gratitude is expressed through not bickering on the battlefield. "We'll hold off this nonsense."

And to Sam; "Spirit magic. You're a spirit mage, so act like one, preferably at the Templars! I'll burn the rest."

True to his word, a wall of flame blisters across the ice, sending up steam and smoke, cutting through the nearest wave of spiders.