Try writing the description (of your made up magical world) from the point of view of a nonmagical character, such as a merchant who encounters the magical ones from time to time, but can only guess at the true extent of their powers.
The sun was setting on a field of growing food. From between
the vibrant green leaves, fruits and flowers of all colors dully reflected the
sunlight, giving the impression of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds swimming in
a sea of green. A hand reached down and grabbed a ruby-colored strawberry,
turning it this way and that way. When satisfied, with a deft pluck and a tug,
the strawberry snapped free from its vine and was deposited in a woven basket.
The hand’s owner stood up straight with a petulant sigh. “Grandpa, it’s getting
dark! Can’t we stop now?” Stacy called out to the figure of an older man
working a hundred feet away. The figure was stooped down low, preoccupied with
picking, and showed no sign of having heard her.
Stubbornly, Stacy marched over to her grandfather, stopped
right in front of him, and looked him straight in the eye. At least, she would
have, if he’d bothered looking up at her. Minutes passed with the old man still
picking, moving from one plant to the next. Finally, he stopped when Stacy’s
body prevented him from moving forward.
When he spoke, he voice was gravelly, like a hundred rocks
colliding against each other. “What, child?” he asked. “There’s still
daylight.” He regarded her coolly, with perceptive eyes that seemed to know
what was coming next.
“Jimmy at school says that if we used magic, we could pick a
whole field in less than an hour! Why can’t we go learn-“ Her voice stopped
short when a heavy hand slapped against her face, sending her to the ground.
“What have I told you about magic-talk? I don’t even want to
hear you use the word! Now get back to work!”
Stacy scampered off, running to the far side of the field
and forgetting her basket. The old man could see her pretending to bend down
and pick the berries while actually rubbing her stinging cheek and trying to
hold back tears.
His face was calm however, despite his outburst. I knew she’d start asking about it someday. We
all did, he thought. But he’d hoped she’d be different. He’d hoped his
granddaughter would just take his word for it, unlike his good for nothing
daughter. He bent down and attacked the berries with a sudden ferociousness. “Mages,”
he spat with disgust. How could a child understand the heavy price of magic?
How could those mages, knowing the cost, still continue their evil arts? How
could his own daughter…
Tears stung his eyes, and he stopped picking. It had been a
long while since he’d cried over her. In order to move on with his life he’d
had to accept that she’d made her decision and he could do nothing to change
it. He wondered if she even still lived. What parent didn’t hope, didn’t expect, that their children would
outlive them. But he’d heard tales of
what the people called the mage’s price, and he’d seen the last mage that came
through the village. The mage’s back protruded in a hump, and he stooped low. He
could barely walk. When the old man saw the mages face, it had been old and
decrepit, with more wrinkles than the old man had. But the worst part was when
the mage spoke his age. He had to repeat himself twice, because each time when
he spoke, the crowd gathered went into an uproar. The mage had been ten years younger than the man. Practicing
the evil arts of magic ate away at a person’s soul, at a person’s own life.
Never before had the old man been glad his parents had been so strict on him.
Now he only wished he had been as strict on his daughter.
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