“Obviously,” she replies, and rolls her eyes. 

Too much, don't draw attention.

“I’m a delivery girl!”

Correct. And you are afraid. Be afraid.

“I am very afraid,” she says cheerfully. “I am being sent to the back room for a terrible fate.” 

“…” says one of the men. 

“What?” Asks the other. 

What. I have never known an idiot as foolish as you. If I have ever had the misfortune to meet a less competent creature I must have reduced them to dust long before I realized their true ineptitude. Repeat my words exactly: "Sorry, I don't really understand, a man asked me to-"

The first man wraps one meaty fist around her narrow wrist. “What do you know of th…” he begins, but never finishes. 

The girl takes out her sword in a flash, and rams it through his chest. His words choke off. He sputters. Blood spurs bright across the bright dresses. 

The girl brushes her cloak back, out of her way as it’s magic retreats from her. Elsewhere, someone screams high and shrill. 

Useless! Move quickly, now! You must deal with the guards before the cultists notice you.

The second man moves fast. His scratched and chipped short blade is in his hand even before the girl can wrestle her own out of his dead compatriot. The guard sweeps his sword in a brutal formless horizontal cut from the draw. 

She leans her thin body out of the way, leverages her colossal unnatural strength to lift her own sword disregarding the weight of the corpse still clinging wetly to it. Steel rings off of whatever ancient alloy her ancient sword is forged from. 

A herculean heave slings the corpse into its compatriot like a missile. “Useless,” the girl agrees, and clutches at her head with her free hand. 

Press the advantage! This one is better than he looks.

The man staggers beneath the dead weight of his comrade, backpedals quickly to buy some time, and brings his guard up. He eyes the girl wearily, fumbles at his belt… a whistle? A scroll? A more exotic magic item? 

One. Two. Three. Four. She launches into the most basic sword drill that absolutely every novice learns. He knows what to expect, but no mere mortal can keep up with the blinding speed of her altered limbs. Underhau from where her sword ended up after dislodging that body. Her blade rings off of his, but the motion has already organically become another strike. Another parry, a tiny flake of steel ricochets from the locked blades. She turns the recoil into a reset, an oberhau from the other side. Again his blade is there, but sweat shows on his scowling face. No time to go for whatever is at his belt. 

The girl’s long old sword slides from his sword in an incongruous shower of sparks, and comes up from the right in the final blow of the form. This time he is too slow and the ancient enchanted blade cuts keenly through the padding and muscle at his thigh. Driven by the girl’s enhanced muscles, it continues through the femur with a shudder that shakes the joint at her shoulder. Through the pelvis, and up, up… she withdraws her blade just past his navel and a mess of steaming lacerated intestines spill to the increasingly slick hardwood flooring. 

Got to deal with the rest of them, now. Get anyone who saw, or who could come looking, and don't dawdle.

“But they’re running away,” she complains. “Not a threat. You want me to… what? Keep them here somehow?”

The patrons mostly mill about aimlessly screaming, or shouting for the absent city watch but a few enterprising men and women break for the door. The store’s two surviving guards advance wearily across the wide room, blades in trembling hands. 

Too SLOW, girl! Catch that guard, the young one, he looks weak-willed. Get him out of sight of the other guards and get me a Suggestion scroll.

“Scramble the brains,” the girl replies cheerfully, “just like me.” She draws out one of the flimsy vellum scrolls, and bats aside the youngest guard’s blade with a lightning fast winden. 

He squeaks indecorously and grips a lacerated wrist tight as his sword’s pristine brass guard rings against the floorboards. His eyes are wide, his face pale. It’s too early for that much blood to leak from the wound in his wrist, but the girl doesn’t remember enough about neurotypical expressions to recall what else it could mean. 

The voice reads. "Dip your sword in the blood of the corpses. Run to tell the guards that you didn't do it, that it was a monster, that you think you're possessed."

Now, stay out of sight and get through the door.

The girl cleans her ancient sword quickly, and proceeds through the heavy back room door. 

Seal the door. Lock and hinges.