[ The not-so-casual looking from third parties persists; a half-orc with a tiefling companion on his arm brushes by Astarion, his leering undercut by his unsuccessful attempt at whistling through crooked teeth. Iorveth fantasizes about lodging an arrow in the sneering stranger's neck. ]

Speaking of relieving attendees, [ he murmurs, craning close to avoid being overheard. ] We'll need to relieve some of these attendees of their invitations.

[ Angling his chin towards the beloathed half-orc's coat pocket, surreptitiously trying to call attention to the violet envelope sticking out from it. There are a few others with similar envelopes in their hands, getting ready to show them at the entrance to be let in－ or so Iorveth assumes. It's the only discernible commonality between all of these well-dressed strangers beyond their casual extravagance.

A beat, and he laughs under his breath. ]

Unless you'd prefer jumping the fence. [ Like real degenerates. Iorveth wouldn't mind that, actually. ]