"Ye're going to 'ave to get me much more of that lemonade fer those praises to work, boy," the smith chuckled after he emptied the mug in one go. "Neer heard 'o Iron Thorgood, either. Every dwarf worth their salt knows the family names, and Thorgood ain't one of 'em," he mused.
With an almost apologetic look on his face, the dwarf shook the mug with the last drops of the spirit in it, belched again and walked over to the monk, inspecting the bracers.
"This be good work. Magnificent even. But that ain't dwarvencraft, boy. This be a common above ground item, magically enchanted by some crazy wizardkin of yers. The inscriptions are written in Dwarven, most of 'em nonsense, anecdotes an' other surfacer crap. There be one word that's full 'o magic, but I'm guessing ye know which one." He walked around to get a better look at the other bracer, shaking his head all the while.
"As I thought, more gibberish an' anecdotes. I think ye'be been conned, boy. That pointy hat 'o yer's sold ye a surfacer item, claiming it be dwarf made." he surmised, pacing over to the forge and taking up the hammer again.
"Me break be over, boy. Yer bracers tell a few dwarven jokes, tales of Clangeddin's arse and Moradin's hammer, 'an that be the only dwarven thing on there. Ye want to ask fer yer money back if ye wanted a dwarf-made set, but if ye're lookin' fer a bit 'o magic, those'll do just fine. Some mighty magic in 'em." With nary a word, the dwarf went back to his hammering, occasionally yelling instructions to his assistant.