Human, lean, pale, black hair, intense dark eyes
(In case you need to know about star death)
When a star runs out of fuel for fusion, the balance between temperature and gravity begins to collapse. As the star begins to come apart, phasing from a pulsating giant to a red giant to a smaller dense white dwarf, the luminosity drives off the outer layers of gas. The star becomes more and more unstable and the dimmed core blasts itself apart in a supernova explosion.
The time was late, almost to the point of being early. It was the cold season and so Corvid’s wings were bothering him yet again, making it difficult to sleep. They had been aching more and more with each consecutive cold season, but that is what comes with old age of 26. No longer able to lead his murder, Corvid’s responsibilities now revolved around passing on his wisdom to the younger ones. Though he was never the fastest crow, he was by far the most intelligent in his murder. His forethought and ability to problem solve was unmatched by the others in his murder.
Corvid stretched out his wings, swirling cold air as he reached them to their full extent. Nowadays simple stretching no longer sufficed. Feeling little relief he decided a nighttime flight was in order.
Silently he threw himself off his branch, wind catching under his wings. The first few uses of his wings ached the most, but once the muscle started to loosen, each beat got easier. It was a clear night. Over the years he noticed those kinds of nights were always the coldest, no clouds to keep the ground warm like a grass insulating a nestling.
Despite the temperature, Corvid enjoyed his night flight. Most crows would cackle at the concept of a nighttime flight, concerned about predators and the lack of a lookout, but Corvid found a certain joy in it. Like most of his kind, he was quite drawn to reflective objects, often keeping some as trophies. At night, especially one like this, he could see the great expanse of shinies that the Old Ones collected above, preserved forever in the black wing of the Wise One.
Tonight, he noticed one of the Wise One’s trophies was brighter than the others. He landed on the outer branch of an old pine, clasping his talons tight to get a better, steadier look. The more he looked at that bright shiny trophy, the more he had to look at it. The shine grew stronger, more intense. Corvid tried to avert his gaze and found he could not. The luminosity grew to the point of searing pain, but Corvid could not so much as blink. He felt the bright light of the trophy being pulled in through his eyes almost like they were drinking it in. He felt the heat of it rising and growing, filling him from the tip of his beak to the very edges of his feathers. The heat turned beyond the point of a burning feel, and his whole being began to vibrate. Just as Corvid felt his mind and body in the verge of an explosion of guts and feathers, the bright trophy in the sky winked out, like it was never there.
Corvid heard something in his head, something very unbird-like, something old, something terrifying, something he could not understand. The bright raging storm inside was more than a crow form could take. The celestial energy sunk into his bones and every fiber of his matter. His form began to change and he lost his grip on the branch. Corvid felt his bones begin to grow, hearing them crack at the rapid speed. His body pummeled towards the ground, feathers coming loose and streaming in a dark trail behind him. Though he hit the ground from a 60 wingspan drop, his pain was already so great, Corvid did not even register the impact. His body was a twisting pale form on the ground, rearranging itself into a being that could better contain the absorbed energy.