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When Scarlemagne offered a life of luxury in his palace as a reward for information leading to the burrow girl’s whereabouts, he expected that the end result would be akin to having a permanent house guest – perhaps fielding occasional requests to subjugate that guest’s enemies, or spare their allies.
But the canny, cunning frog he ends up with exceeds all his expectations. It is surprising that one from such self-serving stock as the Mod Frogs would be willing to share the reward with another – and the contentious grumbling and sniping when the frog and the wasp think he’s not looking suggests they are allies of necessity, only – but their allyship must be a functional, if quarrelsome one.
Considering they were the only ones to succeed.
Scarlemagne shows them around the palace personally, unsurprised by their exclamations of awe and wonder. The wasp he escorts to his personal tailor, and the frog he delivers to his chamberlain to be dressed.
He had sent his measurements ahead of time, after all.
Scarlemagne doesn’t anticipate having to concern himself with them after that, apart from the minor logistics of having two more mouths to feed. Yet the frog immediately seeks him out, looking well in his black slacks and blazer, lace-lined white shirt and novel top hat.
Ordinarily, Scarlemagne would take the opportunity a guest presents to gussy them up in his preferred red and blue – but he had been charmed by the frog’s audacity in sending his measurements before his victory was even assured, and so he put a little more effort into this outfit’s design.
The suit harmoniously marries Scarlemagne’s preference for lace and detail work to the monochromatic sensibilities of the Mod Frogs. They are a rather conservative group, sartorially speaking – easier to ease the frog into Scarlemagne’s idea of finery if he doesn’t scandalize him right out of the gate.
And judging by the way the frog is beaming and preening when he enters the room, Scarlemagne judges his efforts to be well-appreciated. And he finds himself not unappreciative of the sight himself, either. The frog – Jamack – looks good. As a connoisseur with a keen eye for fashion, it's natural for Scarlemagne to take notice of such things.
He claps indulgently. “Well, don’t you clean up nicely?” The frog’s smirk turns wobbly and crooked, like he’s trying not to smile dopily at the compliment. “You look like a brand new frog. Do you like it?” Scarlemagne asks, eager for compliments of his own.
Though he expects sycophantic thanks and effusive affirmatives, Scarlemagne is still taken aback when Jamack squeals with unrestrained delight, “Yes! This lace is incredible, and the fabric is so light…!” He gushes continually about the virtues of the clothes and all his favorite little details, and Scarlemagne listens, stunned into silence.
It occurs to Scarlemagne that, while all mute gangs seem to curate a uniform of some kind, it is the Mod Frogs whose aesthetic bent is closest to the formalwear Scarlemagne favors. Furthermore, Mod Frogs are the mute group most conscientious about their outward appearances, to the point of developing a culture-wide neurosis over minor fashion emergencies.
It is obvious now that only a Mod Frog could truly appreciate Scarlemagne’s forays into clothing design. He wonders why it never occurred to him before.
While Scarlemagne has this private revelation, Jamack is realizing he has rambled on for perhaps longer than is seemly, and has grown stuttering and bashful. “Um… That is to say… Thank you, Lord Scarlemagne.”
Jamack doffs his hat and sketches a flourishing bow entirely outside the boundaries of frog or primate etiquette, and it is an impossibly charming break from tradition and precedent. Scarlemagne knows how highly Mod Frogs value both—and considers that the novelty of the situation must have caught the poor amphibian on the back foot. Mod Frogs are creatures that rely on strict hierarchies in order to navigate social situations, after all. To his credit, Jamack is putting on quite the convincing charade, for all that the frog must be experiencing some sort of internal crisis in the absence of explicit strictures for behavior.
Scarlemagne is not in the habit of offering... assurances. But perhaps, in this specific situation, it is merited.
Scarlemagne clears his throat. “Your feedback is appreciated.” It is unusual for him to receive so many compliments all at once. Lemieu struggles to say even one kind thing when prompted, but Jamack has practically given him a soliloquy where a simple ‘yes’ and perhaps a qualifying statement or two would have sufficed. The last thing Scarlemagne wants to do is discourage Jamack from stroking his ego. “I designed it myself.”
Jamack’s eyes bug out, and Scarlemagne can’t help a crooked grin at the frog’s reaction. “You?! I mean–” Jamack looks down at himself like he's just been told he was wearing Scarlemagme's nightclothes. He coughs. “I mean, that’s… amazing! I wonder if there's anything you can't do.”
Scarlemagne hums as if requiring a moment to consider the question. "Tolerate humans."
Jamack snorts, a charmingly unattractive sound he fails to stifle with a muffling fist, and Scarlemagne smiles.
“In any case, any feedback you can provide is useful. It will help me design your next outfit with your preference in mind."
Scarlemagne's eyes dart down to a faint crease in Jamack's lapel, and he smooths it out with his knuckles absently.
Jamack goes still as a statue.
Scarlemagne frowns, his brow furrowing at the strength of Jamack's reaction. He'd be hard-pressed to say if the frog were even breathing. Surely he's not so afraid of the mandrill that a simple touch inspires a freeze instinct? He examines Jamack's face, and then it is clear.
The frog's face boasts a bright flush beneath the brim of his hat. He is embarrassed, not afraid. But for what?
Scarlemagne recalls his earlier musings about the neuroses of Mod Frogs, and the particularities of their culture’s complicated relationship with their clothing.
Ah.
Scarlemagne retrieves his hand and stalls, unsure of what to say. He's hardly going to apologize, but…
Jamack clears his throat with evident difficulty. "S-So, what's the plan?"
"Plan?"
Jamack's expression exchanges its perturbed discomfort for professional bewilderment. "You know," Jamack insists, contrary to the fact that Scarlemagne does not, in fact, 'know'. "What's on the agenda? What's your next scheme? Who's giving you problems at the negotiating table?"
Now Scarlemagne understands. He considers his intellect to rate far above most other creatures – human or mute – and so he’s reluctant to let the frog in on his plans… But Jamack had come up with that ingenious little ruse to have the burrow girl lead them straight to the motherlode of humans, and it’s only thanks to Jamack’s quick thinking that Scarlemagne finally has Lio and his hapless neighbors locked up in the dungeon.
By all those metrics, Scarlemagne theorizes that the effectiveness of his regime only stands to be improved by welcoming Jamack’s insight.
And so he folds his arms behind his back and turns to walk down the promenade. “I have my sights set on Ratland.”
Jamack hastens to walk at his side.