He shifts, suddenly awkward - how can he look this great deity in the eye, after what he's done? Hello, Mr Earth, I screwed bedded love your daughter. She ripped out ruined broke my heart. He wonders if the God knows - he assumes such a powerful man has omniscience, and uses it to keep a close eye on his child's activities. Then again, perhaps he values the girl's privacy, and keeps out of her affairs - Volterra truly could not guess one way or the other. He doesn't know which he would prefer.

Both his dragons nod to the God as well, Vadir's eyes in particular gleaming eagerly at the sight of him - such power, such size! The beast, in his numbness, in his cold, dead mind, pays little heed to the motions of his companions. He is focused fully on the Earth God, on that ground-quaking, respect-commanding voice of his. "Earth God," greets the blackened titan, his muscles still stiff and tense and his expression veiled. "I come...to request something of you, if I may." It sounds idiotic, and he inwardly cringes at the words. What could possibly make such a majestic creature as the Earth God listen to the whims and wants of a mere mortal, even a mortal so intrinsically entwined with the fate of the God's daughter? He must hear this all the time - I want this, give me that. They are mere children, begging their parents for any boons they can lay their hooves upon.

A wry, dark grin stetches the brute's muzzle. He likes to think himself different, but is he not doing exactly the same as the nameless, faceless others who come to this shrine and demand reward? Like them, is he not asking for power that he has no right to possess?

But he continues; he has come this far. "There is something monstrous in me, Father Earth, something loathsome, something despicable." This is how he rationalises the emotions he shouldn't feel - burning lust, for both blood and women; hideous avarice; volcanic rage. They, after all, are the reasons he's lost Isopia. If he possessed control, if there wasn't a foul beast inside his chest that slavered and begged for the succour of women beneath him, he would not have sired the children that seemed to turn Isopia against him. This is only a guess; he is not positive that his children are what angered the demi-goddess so, but after her mentioning them, they're the only thing he can think of. He may never know if his assumptions are correct.

Perhaps if he can spew all these bad parts of him out into a physical manifestation, channel them into an actual monster, he will stop feeling them. Perhaps if he can transform into a demon at will, a living, breathing version of his flaws, he will be able to control himself; his primitive desires, his explosive temper. Probably not - he thinks these emotions are an integral part of what makes him him, but it has to be worth a try. And if this hellion he creates adds to his raw strength, then is it not worth the risk?

"I want to turn this beast into something physical; something I can control, since I can't seem to do so with my actual emotions." He snorts, his numbness momentarily shifting to be replaced with aching self-loathing; but it is indeed momentary, and the nothingness swiftly returns. "In other words - I wish to be able to shapeshift into a monster at will. I care not what the creature is - just something powerful, something demonic." He has no preference what - any hell-demon will do. "Is this something you can aid me with?" He looks up to the God, up, up, up to that kindly yet stern face, that brain that's no doubt filled with more knowledge and power than Volterra could ever hope to possess. There's hope in those crimson eyes, hope that this can be the cure to all his ills - a nagging little voice tells him that he's stupid to even think that this could fix him, when he is a walking example of all the bad things a man can be, but this hope is all he has. If he can cure himself of these flaws, Isopia may want him again.

Almost as an afterthought, he shifts, face hardening. "Oh - and I want it to hurt." Turning his demons into reality should not be painless - it cannot be painless. He needs the agony to remind him that he's still alive, still mortal, that he can suffer and burn for his sins.