With the very Doctor these horned creatures asked for wandering the desert floor below him, Azzuen flew, slowly, steadily -painfully. The doctor's purpose had been served here, he was kept prisoner, prevented from fighting, from escaping, until after the battle had been fought and decided. The General had been a bit pleased with himself, but even that small sense of triumph had been beaten out of him, forced to turn into a miserable pile of stinking exhaustion, blood-wearied pain and magically numbed injuries. Though the pain was dull now, he knew the hindleg that miserable goat-creature had not only rammed, but then kicked to add further insult to injury would need attention. But while it was numb, he could ignore it, he could persevere, complete this task before telling one of his guards to watch the border while he collapsed and allowed the din of slumber to consume him, heal him.

Alas, that was not going to happen in the near future. Politics were never Azzuen's strong point, he never claimed to be one of those creatures who possessed fruitful amounts of intelligence and wits; no, Azzuen was a soldier, a warrior, suited best for the dance of war than the colourful battles one's simple words could craft. Blood dripped off him, he didn't even know where from now, but it gave the Doctor something to follow, at least. Azzuen's throat burned with demands for water, for refreshment. He had managed something in the Meadow, but it wasn't enough, what he needed now was hours spent bathing in their lake, allowing the soothing waters to penetrate his every wound, and cool his throbbing joints. Though Frostfall was upon them, the southerness of the Throat meant that their lake did not lock up with an icy sheet, their water was still accessible. But he couldn't even dream about that right now.

The General landed, as delicately as his fatigued body would allow, before the 'rescue' party. He looked at the souls, at their battered forms; he remembered, vaguely, seeing their faces on the battlefield. He had to admire their grit, their resolve in coming for the Doctor, when they could very well have been faced with a wall of Soldiers here and been beaten again. It was fortunate, for them, Azzuen supposed, that he had no intentions of holding onto his prisoner any longer. Gruffly, the charred brute nodded to the unicorns, his only offer of a greeting, acknowledgement. With a wary glance he noted the arrival of the prisoner, who, now that Azzuen's own magic had worn off him, was no worse for wear. "Take him." The General said, standing to the side of the group, stoically observing what would unfold. Happy reunions? Respectful gestures as they departed? He was not so foolish to expect anything from them, except perhaps further insults, maybe even a scuffle.

"Leave." He commanded, uninterested in anything they may have to say, attempting to hurry them away should they not already be departing. He held himself with feigned strength, using broken puzzle pieces of an exhausted warrior to craft a picture of silent, unwavering potency against the cloud of enervation that tried to steal over him. Dark, black eyes watched, pupils swallowed up by the sheer fathomless depths that was the colour of his iris. Leave now, little unicorns. And do not return.