Telling people what they needed to do was something Fiaethe could contribute. She looked like she'd been rolled down a hill of jagged rock, but the blood she wore was dried or drying and pain no longer ruled her ribs. Fiaethe stood with a straight back and took brisk steps when she moved. The dark colors she'd initially chosen for her dress served her well, it made her stand out in the sea of light robed temple staff.
She met the expectation of every confused or lost look by assigning a task or giving them a direction in a confident voice. Don't be still she'd say or check again when someone came back from securing the area. Even the ones who were less inclined to listen were reined in quickly with a sharp word. Fiaethe didn't seem to have patience for anyone who paused to take note of the colors across the sky, or rumors from the wall, or concerns that someone might try to shoot another crossbow in her direction.
Enough time had been spent, dodging death. It was time to clean up.
Aeotha was only a few feet away, but it was as if she lived in a different world. She tended the immortal on the ground with a level of care that surpassed what should be between a priestess and a wounded man. Fiaethe did not have it in her to disturb that...not yet. They would have to move him, sooner than later. This place was no longer good enough to bring even the hardier soldiers too.
The temple seemed best, as much as Fiaethe hated the idea. At least there they could get news of the city, which she worried over, and the men at the wall. Maybe someone had seen them fighting. Maybe someone had seen him fighting.
"Well stop standing there, staring," she said to one of the priestesses, "Tear a piece or two from your robe and give it to the High Priestess. She'll need it if he keeps bleeding that way."