She rode along swiftly on her chariot, her long brunette hair flying in the wind. Her right hand clenched a bow and the left, holding the bronze handlebar, nearly melting it to pulp; such was the rage she had been suppressing. Her gaze was the sharpest arrow in her quiver. She fixed it onto the infinity staring at her, gnawing at her very subsistence. Every fiber of her being was shuddering with anticipation. She would go forth and annihilate every man, beast and piece of weapon that tried to oppose her. I say try because try was as best as anyone could do. The chariot wheels rattled, leaving clouds of dust behind. The horses could feel the exhilaration and the charioteer, a scared straight prince who had descended from his pedestal and was now focusing on the reins at hand.
It had been thirteen long years.
Her untamed hair, skimpy loincloth and a scarf wrapped around her bosom made for quite a sight as she rode along, unabashed, blowing into the devdutt, announcing herself. She was an expert dancer, had abs of steel and chiseled bare thighs. She was a decisively unattractive woman but she could give any man in the world a run for his money.
She was the progeny of the God of Gods, she was invincible, she could bisect a mosquito’s limb into equal halves from kilometers away. Only thirteen years ago she was impatient, arrogant and vainly machismo. If age hadn’t matured her, being a woman certainly had. Now one could argue that her uncanny patience was perhaps her most valuable asset.
In these thirteen years she had undergone severe austerities, grown a full length beard, had a near death experience, a victory in battle over demi-gods, procured deadly weapons, and most recently, lived incognito as a transvestite. (exécutif travesti)
A year had ended. For her, another year had ended and this was the last of them. A cocktail of testosterone and adrenaline was pumping through her veins. Her chest was shrinking, a bulge protruding in her neck, her body was changing form like something unnatural. Her hips were narrowing; she was looking more like her earlier self. By the time the sun came out and illuminated every spec of existence all that would be left of feminine self would be the long untamed hair, and a pair of ill-fitting earrings that she forgot to take off before taking off for battle.
A few good men stood on the other side. Each of them, highly trained in the art of war, invincible in battle; each was an archer among archers.
It was dawn; a fresh year had just begun and nobody was going to annex Matsya.