Raistlin Majere: a portrait

Born the weaker of two
He has worked hard to gain his due
Bitter and cold to everyone he meets
Earning his trust is an impossible feat
Golden is his skin and white his hair
He only sees death in that yellow, frigid stare
The magic of old is his only love
But he does much more than from a hat, bring a dove
His ambition was to be a god
But he became a hero and never received a nod
The Master of Past the Present, a dark gem
He could have ruled the world, just on a whim