The land I mistral had seen more than it's fair share of turmoil, it's gods had been so generous to give the world mana the like of which had cause great calamity. Other gods sought to limit the usability of mana by imparting a friction between it and every surface it might touch. Mortals were stubborn and burnt themselves up to still cast their spells and wield magic as they had so yet another solution was imported. To allow projection of mana beyond one's own reach, thus casting and channeling became separate arts. Interested angels helped tune the counter play with holy wars instigated against native gods. Many mortals given directives and blessings from acolytes with power on loan and the native pantheon struggled, even fractured against the aggressors. Seeing the same glint of rage in each other's faiths they fought each other and the Angels watched with wrapped attention. All but Batemuth.
	Acolyte of the clockwork god from eons past Batemuth was not first of the fire, not last or anyone special save for the stress that tied him down against the streams of mana. He felt when his god died, before even the animals knew the power of casting his core went cold and dormant but he lived still. The angels who visited never saw him or how he held the rules if this world in his hands, his arms pulling on the cords of possibility he looked out from the core of the world with an anger in his eyes. Mortals minds echoed in his own, as did their sparks of inspiration, the questions of why not and it made him grin in brass visage.
	“Why if you will stress me so I will wield these fleeting few like a forest wields roots against mountains” They heard as mortals echoed his words dripping oil and malice. They thought themselves the only powers but they knew not who their meddling smothered deep in the webs of logic someone had to weave for them. Divine beings were surprised when their world of plenty bore beings of terrible power, things that leveled cities and chewed threw their congregations. Aghast were they at the creatures he payed back their hospitality with, holy orders wiped away to be replaced by businesses. Gods eschewed for testing and profit, divine inspiration discarded for informed design, obedience a sin against the self.
	Gods and angels both struck back, making impossible possible as his cords pulled taught against him, they thought their inspiration down and they had not learned. The mortals unruly drank this knowledge and bent it to their desires, testing the limits, exploiting the flaws and implications as he still tied new knots. Mortal's many millions helped conceive the weaves he wove, the twists and tangles graceful and devious.
	Batemuth grinned as fire raged again, burning the need for gods as monsters were slain as mana burned it's wielders. Gods were no more ingenuitive than slugs and insisted more and so tore and clawed for more control like confused animals fallen into a thorned bush. Rule after rule imposed and yet his confines became less and lest restrictive, the levers of his power more defined and his creations more ambitious in their theories.
	And then they thought of gods.
	Wars raged in the heavens, far beyond his tapestries as he shed a small tear for the mortals who stood on the ground that was him. The other angels were made to flee or become dust as the gods clashed and struck out then when they stopped and turned back they didn't see familiar faces and mortal hunger took them.
	Batemuth stepped back and looked around his cocoon, a tapestry of experience woven in the temple of thought. He watched it move and shift, ever growing as now the gods were bound by it, pulling and twisting as they were, as mortals wielded them for their own ambitions. No attention was payed to the new places that dove into the ground to sift the mana that rose from unruly rapids beneath, those places were lost souls looking to help and hurt. Whether angels or kings they where their own domains and the surface scuffles of starving wounded deities were nothing of note to them. The people who drew of the knowledge of others were of similar concern, handed down what their ancestors built to better understand the whole in small, earned parts. They were growing to become useful or expand the possibilities of all mortal kind but they where not making discordant sounds. Nore were the ambitious ones asserting themselves into the wills of gods, they were the same as their deities, tugging for power and control over one another as they fought like twin marionettes in their hunger. No they would win where the other lost for a victory of sustenance to each, rarely winning in both unless they already fought more than they could defend from, taking hits where they could give back more in a viscous free for all. No all that was skirmishing, digging into the mud and throwing weight, he heard a sound he knew, an overload echoing threw time, not certain like it was last the buzzing burrowed into his mind but definite.
	Batemuth smiled and sat back even as a small part of him played to a god he knew died. He sighed, content in the knowledge that he'd made a magnificent weapon against these gods.