The jungle is a suffocating cage of green. Ostentus hates it instantly. The air is too thick. It is too wet. It reeks of something repulsive called life.
He lands in a small clearing. His massive feet crush ferns and vibrant orchids into the mud. He shakes his wings. He wants to shake off the humidity that clings to his bone armor like sweat.
A twig snaps. Ostentus spins around. His movement is a blur of yellowed calcium and speed.
A man stands frozen near a thick tree trunk. He is small and brown-skinned. He is nearly naked. He holds a primitive wooden spear that shakes violently in his grip.
Ostentus looms over him. He prepares to snap the little creature's neck. It would be a small snack. It is barely an appetizer. But he is annoyed by the smell of the flowers. Killing something would clear his nose.
He raises a hand. The bone spikes on his knuckles extend.
The man drops the spear. He falls to his knees as tears flow from his eyes.
That is when Ostentus sees it. He pauses. He leans down. His faceless skull is inches from the trembling man. "Well," Ostentus clicks. "What is this?"
He reaches out and taps the man's nose. A jagged white bone pierces his septum. Bones dangle from the tribesman's ears. Ostentus traces a claw down to the forest dweller's neck. A necklace of small animal vertebrae hangs there on a leather cord.
"A disciple," Ostentus says. His voice is a grinding purr. "I did not know the old ways were still kept in this green hell."
The man looks up. His eyes are wide with a terror so pure it looks like devotion. Ostentus straightens up. His chest swells with pride. Even here in the middle of nowhere they wear his sigil. They wear the bone.
"You have kept the faith, little one," Ostentus says. "You honor me with your face." The Angel of Bone reaches back to his left wing. He finds a loose 'feather'. It is a long, sharpened index bone from a human hand long dead.
CRACK!!
The sound echoes through the trees like a gunshot. Ostentus pulls the severed finger bone free from his wing. He holds it out to the tribesman. "A gift," Ostentus says. "From your god."
The tribesman reaches out with shaking hands. He takes the jagged bone. He does not know what else to do. He holds it like it is a venomous snake.
Ostentus chuckles. It is a dry, rattling sound. "Keep it close. It will bring you strength."
With a powerful thrust of his wings, Ostentus launches himself into the air. He shatters the canopy as he rises. He leaves a hole in the roof of the jungle. He flies south. He feels good. The tour is off to a promising start.
The tribesman is spared. He stands frozen in fear, staring at the ragged hole in the canopy where the monster vanished. The bones in his face have saved him.
High above, Ostentus looks down at the endless green. He is disappointed. He feels like the world has not progressed at all in the thousands of years he has been locked away. He thinks it is still just mud, leaves, and primitive men.
He is wrong. He is about to find a very different world.
The jungle ends. It ends abruptly.
Ostentus halts in mid-air. His massive wings catch the wind as he stares down in shock.
The green world is gone. Below him lies a grey scar that stretches all the way to the ocean. It is a sea of stone and concrete. Millions of structures are piled on top of one another like termite mounds. Lights flicker in the grid, struggling against the darkness.
"They have multiplied," he whispers. "Like maggots in a wound."
He dives. He aims for a cluster of crumbling buildings built into the side of a steep hill. He lands on a corrugated metal roof. The structure groans under his weight, but it holds.
The stench hits him first. It does not smell like earth. It reeks of oil, sewage, and unwashed bodies. Below him, in the narrow maze of streets, there is movement. Ostentus peers over the edge like a gargoyle.
Two groups of humans are screaming at each other. They are not tribesmen. They wear tattered cloth and denim. They hold metal objects in their hands. A fight breaks out. It is chaotic and messy. Men beat each other with pipes and fists.
Ostentus watches. A low rattle builds in his throat. Violence. Violence has not changed. It is the one universal language. He enjoys the show for a moment. He looks on as a man gets beaten to the ground. It is joyous.
But his stomach tightens. The hunger returns. He is not here for entertainment. He is here to fuel his hunger and plot a path for his army.
Ostentus drops from the roof. He does not land softly. He crashes into the center of the street. The pavement cracks.
The fighting stops. Both groups freeze. They stare up at the ten-foot wall of fused bone standing between them.
Ostentus does not give them time to worship him. He spins. He extends his wings fully. The sharpened finger-bones at the tips of his wings act like a scythe. He pirouettes with the grace of a dancer and the force of a hurricane.
SCHLICK.
It is a wet, tearing sound. The front row of the mob simply falls apart. Six men are cut in half at the waist. Their top halves hit the ground a second before their legs realize they are dead. Intestines spill onto the dirty cobblestones.
The silence breaks. Panic erupts. But the humans do not run. They raise their metal sticks.
BOOM BOOM POP POP POP!
Flashes of fire erupt from the metal tubes. Ostentus flinches. He feels impacts against his chest and shoulders. It feels like being bitten by the puniest of ants. He looks down. Small pieces of lead are flattened against his rib-armor. They fall uselessly to the ground.
"Noisy," Ostentus grumbles.
He looks at the men holding the guns. He tilts his head and wonders, Is this their lightning? Is this their arrow? It is pathetic. It is loud and rude, but it lacks stinging power.
He laughs. It is a terrifying, clattering sound that drowns out the gunfire. "My turn," he says.
He lunges. The slaughter takes less than a minute. The guns click empty. The screams die out.
Ostentus feasts. His smooth bone face cracks into a jagged opening for feeding. He rips into the piles of the dead. The meat tastes different here. It tastes chemical. It tastes like stress and exhaust fumes. It is not as pure as the shepherds, but it is filling. He wipes his mouth. The uneven mouth fuses with a disgusting, grating sound. His face is smooth again.
He leaves the street painted in red. He focuses north. The disciples in the jungle were boring. These loud, violent city-dwellers are annoying. Perhaps the next land will offer a challenge.
He spreads his wings and launches himself back into the grey sky. He flies towards Mexico.