Force them down, press them, push them into the rock . . . They won't take her; she'll fight, make them understand what it is to at the mercy of another's will, hunted, imprisoned, contained . . .

The Chihulans can't breathe, forced down by the watery hand, pinned by the shock of the cold and the weight of gallons of water pressing downward on their lungs. They can feel their bones pop in threat, the water compressing joints and tissue; their lungs burn for air they can't even expand their lungs enough to try to take in.

One, though, reacted quickly enough. One made it free before the tidal wave hit, tossing himself hard to the side, rolling until he nearly topples off the rocks. With sheer will he scrabbles up, digging his fingers as much as he can into the unyielding rock, his muscles, clinging to purchase.

He's been instructed to avoid violence, but he doesn't even give it a second thought with his companions pale and choking, the water cutting off the sound of screams: As soon as he has any bit of ground under him, his blade is out, and he thrusts forward, stabbing towards the blue wraith who has emerged from the back of the cave.

"Lapis!"

Lapis isn't expecting it; she has only the flicker of an instant to react to the movement, twisting as the blade sears past her arm. The movement and her name, also unexpected, are enough; they breaks her concentration, the watery hand slumping into a waterfall of liquid and kelp, leaving the Chihuelans gasping, racking for air.

The one with the blade isn't done yet, though, recovering his balance, poised to mount another assault.