Wykkyd gives up on trying to fly, because he is obviously not very good at it. He meanders back inside, sore and scuffed up from meeting the flagstones and dust more often than not.
Wykkyd is well-accustomed to not being alone, not ever truly alone, because magic has a life of its own, but this is not the sort of magic he's used to. It clings and hugs, tearing into little bits of himself like fishhooks and keeping him stuck when he'd love nothing more than to rip himself away and get back into his body, the right body.
There's another presence that he senses more than notices, and he's in a bad mood and angry, so he sits right down against the wall of the room and plasters his wings out, fairly demanding that he be noticed.