An ominous trend has been coming for a while. Looming dark, scary, and ominous in the first suras, its vague shape gaining weird misshapen form with each chapter, its unholy outline now congeals into half-seen glimpses of that dread that haunts all seekers could they but admit their deepest Stygian fears. Well-known it is that those few half-mad souls unafraid to don the mantle of Prophet, with the Icarusian presumption to speak for the very Gods themselves, extract with their cosmic daring a certain lupine reverence from the plebian masses whose sodden lives remain blessedly innocent of such ventures to, even beyond, the very boundaries of sanity. For there, unmoored from all restraints of morality, of good or evil, of sane or mad, lies a heady power, an intoxication that eats the soul and corrodes the cerebrum of the poor doomed venturer until that demoniac state is reached where only faint memory lies in the remnants of his diseased mind of a distinction between himself and the Old Gods. All is lost, at that terrible juncture, for the guiding beacon of Reality is forever lost and the accursed soul is doomed to wander, till the breath mercifully stills within his pathetic breast, half in the phantasmal wastelands of his suppurating mind, yet half in the real world of men, dragging his followers to a hideous and inevitable doom.
(See next post for details)