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Scylla was covered in her own blood, his blood, surrounded by writhing tentacles, and panicking. Whatever he was, he wasn't the usual youma to dust, and her own magic would run out eventually. She had to take him out, or she had to hold him until she could get out. She needed to find focus in the midst of all the chaos surrounding them.

She staggered back, staggered away from him as best she could, watching him howl and yowl and drag himself painfully closer. He is your prey. He was her enemy, her sacrifice to the hunger of her magic. The hunger poured through her and she spent it all in his direction, letting the fear fuel her. She watched him climb his way from the hungry mouths, almost a berserker in his lack of self-awareness, self-care to the damage he was taking. And then he lunged, and-

His clawed arm slid into the meat of a tentacle. Throw him away, Scylla commanded her magic. Grasp him, Hurl him, haul him, get him away. There was little choice, now, but to exhaust him through trying to make him teleport, making him drag himself free and chase. She couldn't bring herself to using the magic as she had on youma- letting the teeth rend and tear limb from limb. This awful little wolf was still sentient enough to know what he was doing.

The more to do what she had to, one part of her said, and all the more hesitation on the other.

But she struck at him, directed her power to hurl him far, and turned and ran.