Cynosuth fell, but Rugareth did not. He watched her streak like a comet across the sky and into the wings of the young bronze Aresoth, her clutchmate. He bugled, not in alarm or in rage, but in congratulations, the violet in his eyes already fading to a bright blue. He would not be bitter, even though he had wished to know the star, to be close to her... but alas, if it wasn't meant to be, there was no point of dwelling on it. Instead he'd love the memories of the flight and of the night. That would be enough.

He swooped down, and once he reached a bit of momentum, snapped his wings open and allowed himself to fly up, up into the night. He bugled again, this time in joy and just being able to fly without a direction or purpose. He was tired, but he wasn't ready to go home quite yet. He'd drift for a while and see if he could offer any company to anyone, and if not, make his way casually back to his ledge.