Wind rustled through the trees outside of town, the forest void of prying eyes. A small, circular clearing lay untouched by even the occasional passerby, this area long since having been abandoned with mutters of superstition. If one were to examine the glade personally, they might notice that the trees were ringed a little too perfectly, or that the branches that extended over the hollow almost seemed to form symbols.

A sound akin to the lighting of a match broke the silence, from inside of the clearing. A shining claw appeared out of thin air, pushing into existence, floating for a moment before slowly beginning to tear downwards. Two more claws appeared to one side of it, space itself rippling behind them with a tearing noise as they slowly moved towards the ground. Two sets of fingers came through one of the holes, gripping the sides and pushing them outwards as if holding aside a curtain, and through the hole stepped a massive figure.

Atremath was a demon, currently a chimeric beast covered in black and red patterns accented by a shining gold. He turned around on thick hooves, brow furrowed, and waved downward at the hole left by his entrance. Reality stitched itself back together, swiftly closing the passageway he had just come through. Satisfied, he took stock of the clearing and the woods surrounding - finding that he was alone, he turned his attention to a satchel hanging from his shoulder, removing a hooded black cloth robe covered in arcane symbols. He roughly draped the cloth over his shoulders, dropping the satchel to the ground, pulling the cloth against his chiseled back between two massive leathery wings.

With the robe in contact, the demon began to shrink to match the garment. Feathers spread across the membrane of his wings as his wingspan pulled in slightly, the gold and red all over his body fading as his muzzle hardened into a dark raven’s beak. His curved bull’s horns fell off, disappearing in a cloud of bright sparks before they could hit the ground. The long scaled lizard tail flowing behind him shortened and thinned, sprouting a coating of slate colored fur with a tuft of pure darkness at the end.

Still changing, Atremath leaned down and picked up the satchel. Now small enough to get the strap over his head, he slung the bag over one shoulder, hanging across his back at a diagonal. Walking to the edge of the clearing, he beckoned at a nearby tree with one hand. A long haft of solid wood answered his call, rending itself from the center of the trunk and covering itself in intricately laid out burn marks as it flew through the air. The demon’s hands puffed out slightly, more akin to thick lion’s paws, the claws pushing out as he caught and gripped the newly formed staff.

The demon’s eyes switched from a vibrant gold to an icy blue as he stepped out of the clearing into the thick woods, his change into his mortal guise nearing completion, feathering sprouting out across his upper body while his hooves softened out into thick leonine paws. Atremath, as a rule, did not normally interfere with mortal affairs, but he had set up gateways like the one he had just entered in case he needed to make a special exception. In this case, he was hoping to get around a technicality in a prophecy.

Mortals had a nasty habit of being able to predict major world changing events with ridiculous accuracy. Some of Atremath’s peers would argue that it is easy to say that anything could be argued as predicted with the sheer volume of inane conspiracies that were concocted over time, but he knew that the true prophecies were all easily identifiable long in advance if one was careful. This habit is the reason Atremath tended to avoid attention, an angry mob of adventurers had led to many of his more power-hungry compatriots downfall, and an eternity was a long time to spend as a tea kettle.

One such upcoming prophecy was the reason he was willing to step over his own line here - normally, the mortals’ prophecies predicted the triumph of good and the rise of a hero that would usher in a great period of peace and prosperity, but whoever foretold the coming events decided that it was finally to be a true ending, with a great evil felling all that rose for the good of others. That technicality was where Atremath hoped to be able to interfere - he didn’t care about the mortals, just the fact that the end of all reality seemed like it would be very bad for business.

As such, through extensive efforts, the demon had prepared an alternative persona, carefully shaping it to avoid any attention to himself (he lusted for power like all other demons, but he also recognized that an eternity was a long time to be able to build it up while not spending it shackled up as a wall ornament in some long dead society’s temple) while also getting himself known just enough to be able to insert himself with a group of hopefuls when the time came. So, as the physical changes wrapped up, he stepped towards town not as the demon lord Atremath, but as the sorcerer Alarys, a dark furred raven gryphon of a tolerated repute.

As the prophecy had predicted, signs of a great evil acting to meet its demented purpose were coming together: monstrous creatures that tended to live solitarily were taking part in concerted attacks on settlements more and more often, the attacks themselves were more consistently aimed at repeated targets - someone, or something, seemed to be orchestrating them purposefully, but it irked Atremath to no end that he had no preparation beyond this point. He had been as yet unable to discern who or what was the conductor of the impending doom, so everything that came forward had to be off the cuff, which had never been his strong point. His heavy preparation would have to be enough, and trust that the mysterious ability for whatever impossible sequence the mortals saw to come true would work in his favor without a need for him to fully step in as himself. With nothing left to plan, he closed his eyes and surrendered to his created self, fading out.

Some time later, Alarys awoke, alone in a wood with a pounding feeling in his head. He had no recollection as to how he could have gotten here, quickly checking his satchel to see if he was missing anything. All of his side pockets and pouches for reagents were full, and his personal tomes were accounted for. He was running a little short on gold, but that was to be expected. He would need to go find a quick job to take on soon to refill, but he would survive. Taking stock of his surroundings, he found that he was only a short ways off of a road. Rather than wait to see if someone would pass that could help him figure where he was, he picked a direction and struck off in it. After a few miles, he recognized where he was - he knew of a common watering hole for wealth seeking adventuring groups that he was already headed towards, he would head there to find a party that could use a spellcaster.