Stocke clings even as Amelia's legs rip into him, leaving long, gaping gashes down his arms and sides - they spout dark smoke in billows. The shade ignores them to start dragging his way up Amelia's body, using three or four arms instead of two where it suits. He's fallen eerily silent even while his tendrils lash wildly.

One of the arms gets high enough to reach Amelia's hand, holding the flashlight; it shifts a jagged mouth on the end and chomps, trying to clamp down on the harpy's wrist. Stocke hasn't bothered shifting extra arms on the end, though - that makes things far too complicated - and he's aiming half-blind. The magic-tossed wind snaps in his face.