Then, a slender, fair, bare foot with toenails painted jet-black stepped out from that fissure, elegantly and unhurriedly.
The tips of its toes touched down upon the boiling, churning golden lava, yet it was as if stepping on smooth ground, not stirring the slightest ripple.
Next came long, straight, and strikingly fair legs, light-blue low-rise hot pants, a brown navel-baring sleeveless top, and a youthful face as exquisite as a doll's, with a sweet, innocent smile.
Flaxen hair drifted gently behind her, ignoring the raging currents of Energy and storms of annihilation within the furnace.
And so, Cheris Douglas descended into the depths of this furnace, which was on the brink of collapse.
Her large, emerald-green eyes curved into crescents as she studied the scene with keen interest: four Crimson Longswords, riddled with cracks, yet still pinning down a sphere of incandescent white light; and Murphy, pale and re-formed from the glare of the blades:
