She puts the scrolls and spellbooks into a bag, along with a blanket. She finds the clothes that are the closest to fitting her. She cleans them (and herself) with Prestidigitation. 

She looks around for an exit. She needs to get out of here.

Here's the door. (It's barred shut, but it opens from this side.)

Cool. Out she goes. So long, assholes, thanks for nothing.

(She keeps shaking. It's frustrating. Why is she so weak?)

Outside, the wind bites at her face. The ground is uneven and nearly lifeless. A faint odor rises from the dirt, and the few plants present have jagged leaves.

The building is in... the middle of nowhere, apparently? There's no sign of a fort in sight. But in one direction, the ground looks even more distorted, so probably she wants the other one?

Is she inside the Wound... obnoxiously possible.

She walks in the direction of less distortion, scanning the horizon as she goes. Maybe she'll run into a patrol before a demon or thirst kills her. Maybe she won't. Does it matter?

(yes, of course it matters, something deep inside of her screams, but she's been ignoring it for so long that she'd have to strain to hear it, now.)

The first sign of other life in the area is... a sleeping dretch!

It is not, to be clear, a stunned dretch, nor does it have any of the characteristic injuries that mark even the demons lucky enough to survive the Wardstone barrier.

Great! Fantastic!!

She gives it a wiiide berth and keeps going, forcing herself to hustle. No point in pacing herself just to die to a demon.

A demon?

...Like that schir approaching from her right?

...yes, like that!!

She casts Expeditious Retreat and retreats. Expeditiously. (If this doesn't work she is Just Going To Die, she doesn't have any other spells.)

Fortunately this schir has already used up its own Expeditious Retreat castings hunting down other prey! It shakes its halberd at her and curses in Abyssal as she vanishes into the distance.

She slows down to a more-maintainable pace once the spell runs out. (She'll still collapse after another few hours of this, but if she's more than a few hours from the edge, she's going to die anyways.)

Sleeping dretch. Sleeping dretch. Two sleeping dretches. Two schirs locked in a vicious battle and paying no attention to anyone else. Sinkhole.

...and eventually, as light begins to dawn on her surroundings, she can see a pale blue bubble straight ahead of her, with a walled town just on the other side of the bubble and about a half-mile to the right. There's a large river, too, but the bubble is positioned such that the river is on the opposite side of it in most places.

(River city with a wardstone... Kenabres? Kenabres.) 

Muvaki is struggling to stay on her feet, at this point, but she's almost out. She presses onwards.

The main gates into the town are located to the north and south, but the northern one is closer. Today it's guarded by a paladin with an Iomedaean holy symbol, a dwarven cleric with a holy symbol of Torag, and a few others in the uniform of Mendevian soldiers. 

"State your name and business," barks one of the unempowered ones, as the paladin and cleric attempt to detect Evil, Magic, and Fiendish Presences.

This woman is: not detectably Evil, not detectably Magical, not detectably Fiendish, and too tired for anything but the truth. (pathetic)

"Muvaki Gorm, Chelish worldwound soldier, fort #40. I was taken captive by Baphomet cultists several days ago. I killed the ones keeping me last night." Her voice is flat. 

Oh no, the poor thing!

 That sounds really suspicious, she's probably a cultist.

  It does sound suspicious but if she's with a Chelish fort their treatment of her touches on the treaty. "Understood. Baten and Kern, escort her to the Chelish outpost. You know where it is, yes?"

   "Down Ashwood Lane, near the big statue of Lariel?"

  "You got it."

She follows. (She's so tired and still so wound up. It's obvious how little trust her. She probably deserves worse. She thinks about what she's done today. She wants to throw up.)

"So how're things at Fort 40? I heard up north they figured out a way for wizards to cast Cure spells, is that true?"

 Snort. "Sounds about right. Leave it to the diabolists to think of 'teach wizards to heal' before 'bring in some clerics with the good channels.'"

"Infernal Healing heals more than a Cure Light Wounds," she says, before she can stop herself.

 "Infernal Healing? Do you have to sell your soul to cast it or something?"

"No. It's called that because it takes a drop of devil's blood to cast." And only Evil clerics can get it from their patrons.

 "Wow, yikes."

"Hey, at least they're helping."

 "Sure, but you've got to admit, the diabolism is kind of concerning, let alone the wizardry. It's not safe to dabble in that sort of thing."

"Nothing's ever safe," she thinks with considerable vitriol, and it isn't until they turn to look at her that she realizes she said it out loud.

 "Sure, sure, you can cut yourself on any sword. But there's a difference between that and, you know, Areelu Vorlesh."

"Areelu Vorlesh was a witch."

 "Same difference. Either way they're getting magic that's not from the gods or the land."

"Witches are given their magic from extraplanar entities with unthinkable power and usually become a pawn for those entities in exchange." She pauses. "Just like clerics, really."