"And there stood before my eyes a god-like warrior clad in burnished bronzed armour trimmed in red. All manner of mysterious machinery hung from his power-armour's back, and yellow and black stripes ran down his vambraces. He carried a mighty war-hammer in his grip, and the face of the hammer's massive head bore the insignia of a silver mask. Azure lightning crackled and danced along the length of the weapon.
And there were his eyes. They betrayed a melancholy that seemed out of place- melancholy befitting an old man, perhaps, or a philosopher, or one who has suffered a deep pyschological wound, but not this demi-god of war, one of the mightiest champions of his own race. There was untold genius in his intellect as well- his mind was like a razor, sharp and brilliant, keen and quick to grasp whatever there was to be learned. It voraciously devoured every tiniest scrap of available knowledge and rendered that knowledge down to its constituent parts, not in the eloquent, philosophising manner of his more erudite fellows, but rather according to a strikingly clinical, efficient logic. His was a mind far in advance of any of his peers. So much so that they shunned him as a freak, as something unnatural, abnormal.
But dazzling as his intellect was, it remained merely the setting that threw into sharp relief the stark effects that melancholy had upon his character. Coldness and suspicion, qualities he did not already suffer from want of, were focussed and transformed into twisted bitterness. "
It is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of pulp-Goth fantasy that its epic-romance lies not in the romantic glorification of ages of triumph and victory, but instead in the telling of fall and tragedy, and it is this which creates so powerful a sense of empathy on the part of the reader, if that reader is in any sense human.
For this is the story of humanity, one of temporary glory and transient triumph, and then of eternal nothingness and anonymity, while history moves inexorably onward with scant regard to all but a select few, and even these few are not immune to the fate of Ozymandias.
Hope and Glory cannot be truly found in humanity, and all who insist on doing so are fools of the finest calibre.
This is not to say that we should shun the celebration of our race's achievements. Rather we should not let these achievements, considerable and prodigious though they may be, delude ourselves into thinking that to be human is to be assured of permanent and imperishable Hope and Glory, of inevitable and constant progress. (See "For King, Not Country" http://nobilitas.blogspot.com/2006_04_01_archive.html)
That is why I am not a Humanist, and that is why I continue to seek the Almighty, though the path is a painful and lonely one.
Thus it is that it is fantasy that points towards reality, and visions that give rise to sight.
