Bozo-Dilloe drew the short straw for the Grand Master's society. He entered the main Dilloe-Burrow, turned left where the tunnel narrowed, made his obeisance at the Palm of the Crossing and waited in silence, his head bowed.
He was trembling.
The Grand-Dilloe was not known for good humor; deep thought, great insight, careful actions were his hallmarks. Also, extreme ruthlessness. Many Dilloe burrows keened the air with their wails when his quiet, seething angers burst.
He was the smallest of his birth litter. He was the only survivor. The few others passed mysteriously; healthy, strong one day, diminished the next, gone after a week.
The Grand Master liked to own his burrow. He liked to own all the burrows that touched his burrow.
He was not a happy-Dilloe.
The Grand Master-Dilloe took to writing peasant aphorisms into petite, crimson-red notebooks. His works were not much more than the repeated thinking of the Ancient-Dilloes, slightly shaded by the newer age community thinking that had opened the door to power for him. When it suited The Grand-Dilloe, he affirmed the breadth of his heritage. When it fit his need, the Grand-Dilloe simply ignored what had always been to provide for his own comforts. When the need arose, he simply pushed his enemies off a metaphorical cliff of his own making into a metaphysical gorge he dug for them, from which they never returned.
In short, this fellow was not a Papaw-Dilloe.
Bozo-Dilloe waited. And he shook in his shell.