"I am Raistlin Majere," he says, looking back down at Cato without visible emotion. And he's human, though, yes, you wouldn't necessarily assume so from looking. His skin is golden, and shines metallically for all the flesh itself is warm and soft - a little too warm, actually. Like he's constantly running a low-grade fever. His hair, where it peeks around his red hood, is pure white. And his eyes are as golden as his skin, with something queer going on in the pupils that Cato can't quite see from his size and angle.

Raistlin, for his part, hasn't the slightest idea what Cato might be. Except that he must be from a long-lived people, because it takes about a solid minute for him to age and die in Raistlin's cursed sight. Not even elves take that long.

He wonders what the child will do if his father - he wonders idly if it's the one from the vision, and if so, how - isn't here. Or is here, but dead. Presumably it will then fall to Raistlin to find some adequate care for the boy. Lovely.