Fistandantilus, Tim, and the Wizards Who Made Magic Matter in Dragonlance Legends

Fistandantilus, Tim, and the Magic That Was Dragonlance Legends

After Dragonlance Chronicles lit the fire in my young fantasy-loving heart, I knew one thing for certain: I needed more. I wasn’t done. There were still dragons to be ridden, magic to be hurled, and questionable moral choices to be made by deeply flawed wizards with awesome names. Enter Dragonlance Legends—the trilogy that took everything I loved from Chronicles and dialed the magic, dragons, and wizardry up to 11.

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with Legends, let me tell you: this is where the training wheels come off. Chronicles introduced me to a vibrant world of sword-swinging heroes, sneaky kenders, and brooding mages. But Legends? This was where things got dark. This was Dragonlance with eyeliner on, leaning against the locker, whispering cryptic things about time travel and betrayal.

And somewhere in the middle of all that? I met Fistandantilus.

Let me say that again, because it deserves to be savored: Fistandantilus.

Tell me that isn’t the most wizardy wizard name you’ve ever heard. Say it three times fast and a lich appears behind you with a staff made of regret and ambition.

Now, in my personal ranking of greatest wizard names, Fistandantilus sits at number two. Number one, of course, goes to Tim—the Enchanter from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I mean, come on. You’re expecting something ominous and ancient and he just drops “Tim” like he’s about to invoice you for fixing your Wi-Fi. That’s power.

But Fistandantilus? That’s the kind of name you get carved into your tomb before you die. It sounds like something that would be whispered in a dungeon corner, or chiseled into obsidian over a pool of lava. It’s the name of a man who doesn’t do “casual Fridays.”

He’s not even the main character—just the looming specter over the story of Raistlin Majere, everyone’s favorite sickly goth mage. Legends dives deep into Raistlin’s ambition, his hunger for power, and his time-traveling attempt to become a god. (Because what’s a little temporal meddling when you’re already dying and wearing black all the time?)

I read Legends around the same age I read Chronicles, so I was maybe 13 or 14. Let me tell you, this series hit differently. Suddenly it wasn’t just about good versus evil. It was about ambition, consequence, destiny—and whether your twin brother might try to kill you in a magical tower because your soul is slowly turning into arcane soup.

That’s a lot to unpack between math homework and Nintendo.

And here’s the thing about Legends: it made magic feel dangerous. In Chronicles, it was cool and mysterious. Here, it’s a loaded weapon. Raistlin’s journey through time and his merge-with/destroy relationship with Fistandantilus (not a phrase you type every day) felt like watching someone climb a ladder made of broken dreams and dead apprentices.

But I loved it. I devoured those books. I was flipping pages like they owed me money.

I distinctly remember the scenes in the Tower of High Sorcery and in Istar, where time travel became a real thing—not in a wibbly-wobbly way, but in a “change history and maybe unmake the world” way. And Caramon? My guy was not okay. His brother’s flirting with lichdom, he’s eating stale bread in the past, and his armor doesn’t even fit right anymore.

If Chronicles was the gateway drug, Legends was the full-blown magical bender. And again, it all tied back to what made the series so addictive: dragons, wizards, and magic.

The dragons weren’t just big lizards flying around; they were ancient forces tied to the very balance of Krynn. The wizards weren’t always the good guys (or the bad guys), but forces driven by belief, power, and ridiculously dramatic fashion choices. And the magic? It always came at a cost.

It was perfect.

Even now, decades later, I get that little spark of joy when I hear the name Fistandantilus. It’s the same spark I felt when I cracked open Time of the Twins for the first time and realized: “Oh. This is going to get weird.”

My 12-year-old has just started reading Chronicles now, and I’m honestly jealous. They get to experience it for the first time, to meet Raistlin and Caramon, to roll their eyes at Tanis’s angst, and to witness Fistandantilus lurking like a magical credit card bill no one wants to deal with.

And who knows? Maybe one day, they’ll read Legends and come to me wide-eyed, asking if Fistandantilus is a real name. I’ll look off into the distance, stroke an imaginary beard, and whisper, “Yes. And he was almost a god.”

Then I’ll hand them a D20 and say, “Roll for initiative.”