A pulp story, for those unfamiliar, is characterized by limited description, quick, snappy dialog, and over-the-top characters. Indiana Jones, for example, is an adventure pulp homage. We try to embody this spirit and these kinds of characters, giving us a particularly unique niche.
The point and purpose with a pulp story is a wink at the audience: the inner workings of the story -- the characters, the plots -- all take themselves with the utmost seriousness, but the author does not. The writer knows that it's uproariously hilarious that this smolderingly beautiful femme fatale is a long-lost princess with a tragic past, a dark secret, and a desperate love of firearms, but the poor schmuck she has her eye on in the story thinks she's the most enthralling, natural woman in the world.
The sheer seriousness of the story is what makes it funny, the wide-eyed fervency of an ingenue desperate to make it big while everything shatters around her. This is what Silvermoon is trying to portray: that these characters with phenomenal cosmic powers are occasionally really, really retarded, and watching them trip up on themselves is awesome.
