This was a (very late) birthday present for my mother, the house's resident Raistlin fan. Those who know the character should be able to figure out what's going on here, and why only the things behind him are alive.

I never want to draw a vulture skeleton ever again. Ever. My brain* demanded, out of the blue, that I throw one in, and I spent the better part of the day playing that leg-bone's-connected-to-the-where-the-hell-does-this-attach-again game. Somewhere out there, an orinthologist is plotting my demise.

He's in black robes, but if you look reeeeally close at his cloak clasp, you can see where I think his allegiance really lies.


*Which I am pretty sure is trying to kill me at this point.