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Ah see that now, Linnéa", Brokhelm said through his mirth. "We are in the presence of a well seasoned shirriff of the Shire."
"You poor soul, you are mesmerized! Is it not merely the trick of the tale to make you believe so?" she replied. "A shirriff in fiction is not one in fact, and I greatly doubt, dear brother that you could guess what it is a shirriff does!"
"Well in either case, fact or no, it seems that it has earned him a kiss, and so must be quite a desirable occupation. Did he not say himself that many youths had been similarly employed? With such payment, who would not strive for such a post?"
Linnéa smiled at Brokhelm's joke, for though still in his twenties, it had been too long since she had seen him so merry.
"Shh!" Brokhelm cautioned her gently before turning to the dark eyed girl. "Well done, Miss Æoel! If only all storytellers could be so well paid!" Then realizing the full import of what he had said, he quickly cleared his throat. "Master Macaroni," he began again, addressing Falco this time. “Please enlighten me, for my sister Linnéa’s sake – for she has guessed correctly that I do not know the term shirriff – what is this post, and were might one sign up for a position? It seems a most popular vocation!” Brokhelm grinned as Linnéa tread on his boot under the trestle like the old days as children.
“Master Falco, is it true that you have held the title of shirriff in your land?” she asked politely.
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