Death and...

Another flower series! This time ft the Lunar Chronicles girls. 

And Owlet is still Owlet

We see a cottage, old but lived in, on a hill of wildflowers. We see the cottage, silent and dark except for a single light on the second floor where we can make out two figures through a curtained window, one larger and feminine, the other smaller and child-like. We also notice that up past the cottage, into the dark night sky, the stars aren't as bright as they usually are, and if we look very closely we might be able to see one start to fade. We pan in, down to the second floor where a man rests on a stool, a sword draped across his knees, working by the faint light of his child's room upstairs, he sharpens the blade, over and over and over. Then we pan up into that warmly lit room on the top floor, where the child, gods he could only be about 7 or 8, is put to bed by a woman with a cloud of dark curly hair, who murmurs a soft song to her son before she says goodnight. Then we pan out, out of the cottage and out of the small plot of land where the cottage rests upon its lonely hill. We turn and then we see a veritable mob of all sorts of people, marching down the long dirt road, a singular purpose on all their minds, with torches burning bright and the smell of lead and pitch following the constant drum of feet on the road. We can see those among the crowd who are not dressed in the garb of a commoner or noble, who wield weapons forged only to hunt. Who we know are different, more professional than those around them. We see who they are, these hateful people who only live for the hunt, we see those who strike back only to survive, and we see those just chasing after those highs of showing those who thought themselves better, who exactly was in charge now. Yes, we do know who these people are, they're Hunters. And we then pan out, away from the mob marching towards the family, out of the forest that covers most of these parts. And then we pan up, and up. Out of this world, up past all the others who lie beautifully interlinked with each other, up out of this galaxy full of fading stars, and then we pan up one final time, out of this plane of existence and then, only then can we see the true problem. We can now look at why these Hunters look for innocent families and bystanders just trying to get by. We can see this plane and the celestial, both a shimmering disk, though like the stars, maybe not as bright as before. We see an ocean of blue coating our plane, and if we pay close attention, we can see the edges of the blue slipping away, disappearing into where, we don't exactly know. We see more and more of our prime material plane uncovered as the blue frays at the edges. If we looked closely at the trees, the grass, the water, or the sand and compared it to the surroundings they knew a year and a half ago, we would see a startling difference. Along with the blue that's ever so slowly fading away, the color in life has started to fade. The emerald of the leaves are never as vibrant as they were, and the grass always seems to look as if it needs to be watered. The sands are bland and unflattering, and the water, it has started to lose its inhabitants. We can see that these worlds that thrive off of what that blue is. We can tell that once that blue is gone, these many intertwined, and beautiful worlds, may not survive what's to come. And as we stare into that shimmering disk, the large blue aura fraying at the edges as it vanishes, we know one thing. Magic is disappearing.

Look Pierre, I get your point, we review everything, the public’s opinion has far too much power even when their reviews are arbitrary and unqualified.