Fiaethe's face was blank of the nervousness and darkness that coursed through the triage. The motion and blood did not turn her stomach at all, in fact Fiaethe held strictly to her task with no complaint. She did not have much problem ordering people about when she had to; even if she had no true authority here, they seemed to listen just because of the tone of her voice.
When she knew that she was going to be working at the wall, Fiaethe was sure to dress plainly. Yet even in doing so, she realized how starkly she stood out among the temple staff working the square. The hunter green of her clothes was to make what blood that came to be on her clothing less noticeable. Her hair was tied back tightly and she did not wear gloves. This was less for her own benefit and more for those who passed her on the way in. No one who was seriously injured wanted to be received by another who was covered in the blood of others.
"Two hundred and seventeen," Fiaethe replied evenly. Her eyes moved to High Priestess. "Not a bad number, but the night is young and some aren't being moved fast enough. It can't be helped."
No place of healing ever felt efficient enough in war. Time did not pause so easily for life, perhaps a reminder that death was always the easier road, in the end.