I'm reading this techno/fantasy book right now, called Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville. Great book! Anyways, I found this excerpt pretty cool. We need some sort of creation/forging/enchantment system like this! :D

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"Tansell's a metallo-thaumaturge," said Lemuell. "Aren't you?"

"Well... I know a few techniques for working metal, " Tansell replied.

"It's not a complex job," said Isaac. "Just need a bit of welding. Come this way."

He led them through the rubbish to where they had hidden the mirrors and the other materials for the helmets.

"We've got easily enough stuff here," said Isaac, squatting beside the pile. He picked up a collander, a length of copper piping and, after a moment of sifting, two sizeable chunks of mirror. He waved them at Tansell vaguely. "We need this to be a helmet that's going to fit snug--and we're going to need one for a garuda who's not here." He ignored the glance that Tansell exchanged with his companions. "And then we need these mirrors attached to the front, at an angle so we can easily see directly behind us. Think you can manage that?"

Tansell looked at Isaac contemptuously. the tall man sat cross-legged before the pile of metal and glass. He put the colander on his head, like a child playing at soldiers. He whispered under his voice, a weird lilting, and he began to massage his hands with quick and intricate movements. He pulled at his knuckles, kneaded the balls of his palms.

For several minutes, nothing happened. Then quite suddenly, his fingers began to glow from within, as if the bones were illuminated.

Tansell reached up and began to caress the colander, as gently as if he stroked a cat.

Slowly, the metal began to shape itself under his coaxing. It softened at each momentary touch, fitting more snugly onto his head, flattening down, distenting at the back. Tansell pulled and kneaded at it gently until it was quite flush with over his hair. Then, still whispering his little sounds, he tweaked the front, adjusting the lip of the metal, curling it up and away from his eyes.

He reached down and picked up the copper pipe, gripped it between his hands and channelled energy through his palms. Obstreperously, the metal began to flex. He coiled it gently, placing the two ends of the copper against the colander-helmet just above the temples, then pressing down hard until each piece of metal broke the surface tension of the other and began to spill across the divide. With a tiny fizz of energy, the thick piping and the iron colander fused.

Tansell shaped the bizarre extrusion of copper that jutted from the newborn helmet's front. It became an angled loop extending about a foot. He fumbled for the piece of mirror, clicking his fingers until someone handed them to him. Humming to the copper, cajoling it, he softened its substance and pushed one, then the other piece of mirror into it, one in front of each of his eyes. He looked up into them, each in turn, adjusting them carefully until they offered a clear view of the wall of rubbish behind him.

He tweaked the copper, hardened it.

Tansell removed his hands and looked up at isaac. The helmet on his head was unweildy, and its provenance from a colander was still absurdly obvious, but it was perfect for their needs. It had taken him a little more than fifteen minutes to fashion.