Branack had very little understanding with all that had transpired next. He looked at the young lass from the race of Men with incredulity as she boasted of Branack's prowess. He'd certainly done his fair share of events and achievements in his life thus far, but he was no legend. Especially not this far south in the plains of this new Kingdom of Men. He was inexorably led into the King's hall, and was further out of the loop by what transpired. 

[i]An Easterling[/i], he thought to himself. Or so he assumed. He'd never met one himself, but he'd heard the stories, for Dwarves loved nothing more than to weave fine tales. What on Middle Earth was one doing here, and why was this King threatening and being threatened by him? Then a low growl permeated from his throat (which might frighten the young lass Eolan next to him) when he saw the Elf. He knew well the tales of Nauglamír and the subsequent battles that happened, but calmed himself down when he realized that not all Elves were treacherous. The Mirkwood Elves were allies, albeit loosely. 

His thoughts were shattered when he heard the noble King of Men and the Elf speak of what was most sacred to the Dwarves. "What say you?" he asked, stomping forward toward the Elf, his eyes upon the him, imploring an answer. "Why do you speak of the Maker's Anvil?" Lo, for Branack knew that his God, the Valar Aule, had forged he and his kin before all others, shaping them to resist the corruption of Morgoth and his ilk. His Anvil was a sacred item lost in myth. "I will have an answer."[@BCTheEntity][@Vor][@Sigurd][@Jbcool][@DrunkasaurusRex]