Stepping out of the cold water, the witch aimed at some safety of a shelter that could protect her from the raging animal, the booth.
Instead of charging straight towards it, she advanced diagonally to the left. Never in her life had Swamy run faster. Her strides were longer and jumps were higher.
Her big melons bounced with each sprint. Inexplicably, a protective cage slowly unravelled over it, restricting its soft plops—casting a shield like a feminine armour.
Her shimmering tresses waved backwards lousily, spreading small glitters in the air. At the end of the length, many tiny bands platted ten braids that stretched their length to the ground. A handful of them created magnetic energy that encircled a firm armour at the back.
Upon her forehead, a downward pyramid ca
