Not a face Dimitri recognizes. He can't remember every face that slid by at that table, but he's certain he would recognize them. He thinks.

"It is, it is." Cheerful, and riotous, and -- something struggles against the ticking clockwork, churned bloody in the gears' teeth. Dimitri blinks. The world swims, blurs, scenes doubled-tripled and overlaid on each other. "It's good to see people enjoying themselves. Any sign of a guest of honor?"

Funny -- there's a whiff of Wyrd on him, but no Mask or Mien.