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"'Tool: a noun that denotes a piece of equipment or device that are used to make tasks easier than it would otherwise have been, often made with a specific purpose in mind, although it can also be used about a creature, most commonly a person or group of persons, that is being controlled by another. By this it can be derived that the original meaning of the word must have been simply an entity which functions as an extension of the will of another without exerting any control itself.'"
Her voice was monotone and dispassionate as she read aloud from the paper in her hand, her eyes slanted slightly inwards, russet in color and void of any signs of emotion, as even her auburn eyebrows, which matched her short hair, remained perfectly still, and the corners of her full, slightly pouting lips never strayed the least upwards or downwards. Her narrow nose was eternally unwrinkled, and overall not only her face, with her pronounced cheekbones and slightly jutting jaw, but also her body language betrayed nothing but utmost apathy. She was motionless, as well, the only movement one could see about her being that of her eyes moving over the sheet in her delicate yet rough-skinned hand, her lips forming the words she read, and the flutter of her long indigo coat in the wind.
"'Master: a noun that denotes a person who controls or owns something or someone, or alternatively simply employs another in its service. Being a master can also refer to one being highly proficient in one or several areas of expertise or a person who teaches apprentices in its trade. Also a verb, which can mean to learn a skill to perfection or to own something.'"
Why did she read this? She had already read these exact words countless times, over and over again, and had for some reason kept doing so whenever she was not otherwise engaged ever since the day her master had borrowed her that Rodorian dictionary many years ago. There were many words in that dictionary, and she had read about them all, but only copied the ones she had felt like she needed to copy, the ones she had to read again, the ones that felt important. The letters in the Human Cipher on the paper were written with exaggerated care, as she had sometimes spent as much as several minutes perfecting just a single one of them, but was in no way artful or decorative - in fact she could say with absolute certainty that they were perfect replicas of the same letters in the dictionary. If one compared the passages she had written to the ones in there, they would be all but identical. Why? Why was not important. Why was none of her business. She just did.
"'Blue: the color most commonly associated with that of a clear sky or the ocean. It is often used as a symbol for melancholy or cold and of infinity and distance, but is also often associated with positive traits such as sympathy, harmony, faithfulness, friendship and confidence. It is also frequently interpreted to represent excellence and superiority.'"
She did not understand all that she read, despite how many times she had read it and having read through the entire Rodorian dictionary from cover to cover, but she felt no need to understand; the words were simply important, and although she did not know why, she wanted to remind herself over and over again of their definitions. Master... yes, her master, her owner, the one whose will she enforced, the [I]only[/I] will she enforced. Blue, like her clothes, the woolen coat hanging from her lithe and athletic form, the tunic underneath it, the trousers that hugged the shape of her slender legs. And a tool was many things, from hammers and saws to the thirty-inch long straight sword she kept in the scabbard at her left hip with its crystalline hilt, or the strange weapon by her right hip, its braided dual blades extending seventeen inches from the hilt, which was fashioned in the likeness of a demonic-looking head with glittering eyes of glass, spewing forth a handle of wood that ended in a claw-like protrusion from its pommel. Magic, too, was a tool... as was she. Her master's tool.
There had once been one toolbox with thirteen tools... each tool with a specific purpose, one area in which they performed better than the others, but all capable servants of their masters. Now there were nine toolboxes with one tool in each, and one box with three. She was alone now, and served her master in all things, as she should, as she had done for all the thirty-two years that had passed of her life.

There was a tug at the edge of her consciousness and she immediately put away her paper, stowing it away in a pocket in her coat, and turned her head to look at Zerul City, locating where the tug had come from. Someone had triggered one of the wards she had spread across the city in an effort to do her master's bidding; wards that did nothing to the one who triggered them, but simply let their maker know that they had been triggered. They were special wards; soul wards, her master had called them when he had taught her the art of their creation, triggered only by the presence of a specific kind of magical energy. There was an equivalent kind for the physical realm, blood wards, which were triggered by the blood in a person's veins, but of the one she was hunting she knew not the blood, but she knew the energy.
Pulling her boot-clad feet beneath her to stand up, the wind truly caught her coat and blew it fiercely, unobstructed as it was at her level, perched atop the highest tower of Castle Zerul as she was. The entire city stretched out beneath her from there, on her bluish-gray stone nest that extended downwards into the keep of the ducal stronghold, and although it was cold it was also the best place for her to keep her vigil. Now it was time to move. Her quarry had revealed its location.
Her knees hurt, but she ignored it. She could still serve her purpose. She was not yet broken.
"[I]Dweneth jhoon raithla peigein grumert,[/I]" she chanted as she stepped towards the ledge past which awaited a fall of more than a hundred and thirty feet, her hands tracing arcane sigils in the air before her. "[I]Tuagar jhoon sonedth brega menrirl,[/I]" she finished and then, bursting into a sprint the last bit of the way, leaped off the tower... and as she continuously siphoned energy into her spell she slowly descended, her downward movement diminished by magic while her forward momentum remained constant. Gracefully she glided over the city, legs extended beneath her and her coat fluttering behind her, as she approached the area where the ward had been triggered - near the Church of Reina - where she intended to land. As she approached that place she began decreasing and increasing the energy she fed the spell, thereby controlling the speed of her fall and letting her control just how far she would glide. The wind had pushed her a little out of course, but not that much; she would end up where she wanted to be.

She landed, unharmed, in an alley not far from the Church of Reina, but two and a half thousand feet from Castle Zerul. She ended the spell the instant her feet touched the ground, and immediately went into a pocket in her coat and produced a vial of piaan, which she drank without hesitation; the spell had taken a lot of energy, and she needed her strength. She remained still while she endured the head-splitting, mind-wrecking pain that came with the imbibing of piaan, and then shook off the successive euphoria with practiced ease. And then she waited.
Not for long. Not a minute had gone by before another ward was triggered, and she ran, keeping to the unused alleys and barely noticeable passageways, until she got to the site of the other triggered ward, and then kept running in the direction the two would suggest was being traveled. She ran swiftly and lightly, her breath even and relaxed as her highly trained body carried her through the city...
And then she saw him, his back turned towards her, clad in ornate armor, crimson occasionally lined with gold, and wearing a crimson hood. He was moving as if weakened, wounded or ill, but driven to distance himself from something. Was it him? Perhaps.
"Stop," she called, quickly slowing to a halt herself, finally allowing her breath to deepen a little to sate the desire of the rapid beat of her heart for air. The authority behind the word was implied, but lacked the conviction and urgency one might expect in such an order. Her expression and body language likewise betrayed only indifference.
Whether the man stopped or not, she would proceed to ask, loudly enough to be heard over the fifty or so feet that still separated them, "Are you the Fixer?"