Another painful pulse wracked his body, the dreadful heartbeat of the chaotic energies he attempted to control. Around him and through him it rushed, the jagged intertwining scars along his body opening to reveal searching yellow eyes amidst roiling, living black. Before him in the Mould he had erected days before in preparation wisps of energy, vaporous and liquid coalesced in response to his will, shaping and hardening. Gritting his teeth as the raving tide attempted to backlash against his commend, Fiction stifled a retched moan that clawing for attention in his throat. The movement of those watery amber orbs arrayed within his pale flesh quickened as the critical moment neared, all turning toward the Mould simultaneously as a darkling form slowly solidified.
Only when what little light there was in the room glistened against its sharpened edge did he release his hold, the overwhelming miasma around him sinking away, the eyes slowly closing and sinking back behind their façade of damaged flesh. Within the Mould his creation sat, a gloomy black blade, long and single-edged. Around it clung a residual stain of chaos, a mark forever telling of its origin. Reaching out with trembling fingers, Fiction took up the virgin weapon, his reflection warped and twisted as he ran his thumb along its length. A brief smile played across his lips, fleeing instantly as he noted the myriad cracks spreading along its supple expanse.
With a cry he flung the blade away, heading for cover behind the standing Mould, just in time as a shattering CRACK and monstrous explosion rocked the room. For a long moment he remained motionless, searching with eyes that looked beyond for what had been and, finding only a fading residual cloud, he stood. A shallow crater, burned black at the edges, was all that remained of his attempt to hone chaos into a still form. Sighing, Fiction stepped around the Mould, unsurprised at its current half-melted state. His body ached, his careful planning blown to hell from a single mistake. All that pain for nothing.
"Such is the way of Chaos," he murmured softly, ignoring the protests of body and mind as he preparing a new weave in order to fix the damage to his laboratory.