“What you can’t cleanse with fire, save with water.” It was a silly thing his father used to say when they cleared the fields for spring planting. Burn the brush. Water the fields. Till the earth. Wait for the storm. And Roderik thought maybe it was then he felt a strong interest in the dichotomy in the forces that warred within him, branching like roots from his body, into the ley lines of the earth below.
He’d always felt a draw to the elements. It was as though the heartbeat of Tyria was that of his own. He pulsed with them, danced with them, swayed to and fro. The air was his skin, and the earth what bound him in. Water coursed through him, the blood in his veins as wild as the river. And fire? Fire was his soul.