McNaughton channels the spirit of Jack Vance in his prose full of dry nonchalance and sardonic wit, in his grouchy and self-absorbed characters trying to figure out who they are, or were, seldom looking at the big picture or the shape of the vaults they've trapped themselves in, rarely noticing paths of potential escape, instead making a home below.
Brian McNaughton exhumes the mind of Clark Ashton Smith to use as inspiration, his descriptions of a dark fantasy horrorland often voluptuous, a place of magic and monstrosities and little lives just tryin' to live their lives, you know? Don't judge them. shudder shudder toil and trouble/bodies burn and corpses bubble. adventuresses and noblemen and woodcarvers alike shall be drawn into plots and magic and long-games played by Fate and other unkindly forces. the young and the old alike live in the daydreams and nightmares of the dead, turned playthings. the living and the dead alike yearn for their one true perfect love, no matter the cost and no matter the body count. the sorcerer makes the dead alive again, he rapes and cavorts with his undead playthings. the human ghouls would do the same, their heavy-breathing necromantic fantasies leading them to cemetery and tomb, to play with corpses, to dance with them, to copulate in now-emptied coffins, atop the drying fluids and writhing maggots. The inhuman ghouls skulk about the graveyard at night, waiting for the humans to depart, scrambling atop the graves and scrabbling for purchase, tearing the coffin asunder, ripping the rotting flesh from bone, slurping up the entrails and scooping out the brains, to relive the memories of tonight's tasty dish.
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