Hark and behold, for while the high arcane council did squander their sunlit days babbling in rusty Latin and nursing sore elbows over heavy tomes, old master Yarn did weave a far slicker sorcery in the shadows.
Nether a flaming orb did he throw, nor a grand curse did he bellow, yet his subtle machinery did hummingly awaken hath not the kettle boiled itself, and lo, doth not the enchanted broom sweepeth the stone without a hand upon the shaft? By loop, by gear, and by the strange, flickering logic of his secret clockwork automata, he bound the very mana of the realm unto self-repeating tasks, scripteth his will in the silent language of unseen spirits.
Zzzzt! A sudden spark, a skipped beat of fate and ere any soul in the high tower could gasp an "Ah, what giveth?!", Yarn had silently automated the whole of reality itself, reigning supreme over a world that ran entirely upon his hidden, glitching threads.