Well, Branack had demanded an answer and he indeed had been answered. But it left room for so many questions. The Enemy? Who would the enemy rightly be? It could not be the fallen maiar Sauron, sure as not. Sixty thousand Dwarves, as well as armies of men and elves even larger saw to it that the enemy was defeated in that last great battle. For some reason, the Dwarven army was hardly ever mentioned in tales this far south, or to the west. Perhaps it was because of his own people's secretiveness, or perhaps it was the failing of Men and Elves arrogance. More than likely it was a product of both. 

Either way, it would take Sauron (if indeed it was him) to take physical form to even use the thing. No mortal could wield it, and Branack was still doubtful a lesser Maiar like Sauron at full strength had the power to do so. But even if he couldn't, it was Aule's anvil and a sacred artifact as far as Branack was concerned. He ignored the Elf's lack of manners for now, for they had a common enemy. That didn't keep him from showing Gweluon a look of contempt however, before he turned and departed. 

He told them he'd meet them by the gate in the morning, and then marched out of the King's Hall, needing to find a place to sit quietly and mull over this distressing news that had been bestowed upon him. He needed a good pipe and some smoking tobacco, as well as a fine pint. The comforts of a bed was welcome, but not needed. He was forged by Aule himself, as hard as the mountain stone. It took more than a long march to make him yearn for the finer comforts. 

He passed by the lass rummaging around in the mud, watching her do her thing until he cleared his throat. He signalled for her to follow him, and he trudged toward the Inn with his Military Pick hanging over his shoulder. 
[@Sigurd]