Watery tendrils seep upward from the rock, braid themselves into chains. They snag the blade-bearing Chihuelan's ankles, yank backward, sending him crashing to the rock. He shouts, scrabbles again for purchase as the blade goes skittering out of his hands with the impact. The chains pull him back -- harder, faster, flinging him outward . . .

Fortunately he manages to evade the rocks when he lands, but he makes an impact hard enough into the sand to break bones. The ground explodes into a small shower around him as he strikes, and he is still.

One of the other Chihueleans has managed to grab for his firearm -- though whether it will work or not after being nearly drowned is anyone's guess. He levels it towards Lapis; his hand wobbles as he fights to aim . . .

And finds a watery clone of himself staring back at him, perfectly constructed to an exact copy -- down to the gun now pointing back at him.

If that gun will work too is anyone's guess . . . but for the moment there is a standoff, the two guns pointed at one another, waiting to fire.