"Everything here is bespoke," Wrathion mutters as he walks, "and not in flattering cut."

He waits until they're a little out of earshot of the celebrations, hidden in the shadows of a building, then leans up against one of the wooden posts and folds his arms -- regarding Astarion thoughtfully.

"You were brought here by Enam, I assume, or one of the Merchant's associates?"

Just to confirm properly, before he gets too deep into this.