Imoen is there in mask and pink dress, scars from cuts and acid splotches peeking out at the bare shoulders. And - she's uncomfortable, not because of the outfit, but because it's not the environment she knows. The closest she came to upper class events had been holing up in a ducal library, studying scrolls longer than her attention span.

Let her fly back to the recently-discovered sky island. Let her undermine whatever the local equivalent of Spellhold is.

Let her pick up a glass of wine, and tip it toward the man with the fascinating mask, before taking a sip. "Hope you're comfy in all that. Find anything you like?"