Raistlin is cold, brittle, and razor-sharp. His voice is soft, acidic, deliberate. Every word is a weapon. His health is fragile, but his mind is anything but—twisting, calculating, and deeply cynical. He sees death. All things wither. This isn't philosophy to him; it's perception. Truth. The rot beneath every beauty. The entropy in every touch.

He was a gifted child. He became a tool. They fed him lies about balance, about purpose, then cursed him to see the futility in every living thing. It wasn’t empathy they taught him—it was despair. A man cannot learn to love the world when all he sees is its decay.