He'd been keeping an eye on the other healers, if only because he liked to know everything that was going on around him. Horace leaned against a wall and wiped the sweat from his brow; he felt like he'd been running nonstop. The blood on his hands was drying, coming off in crusty flakes that smeared against his tunic. It was the blood of multiple knights: some living, some dead, all who had given more to the battle than he. Horace frowned; Lawr had been working nonstop, from what he could see. The other man moved with an odd preciseness, as though he were a doctor before. Horace stepped forward, intending to force the gold apprentice to slow, if only for a bit.
A man's scream stopped him and he glanced over. Screams were, after all, not uncommon here, but this one. A white knight-apprentice ruthlessly wrapped him up, her hands rough and uncaring. The wounded would live, but... Horace frowned and clapped a hand on her shoulder.
"You could be a little gentler, you know. They've been through a lot." 
