The entrance of Balun Dashiell may have drawn a few curious glances, not for any ostentatious display of weaponry or eccentric fashion, but for the quiet presence of a baby cradled securely against his chest. Swathed in a soft sash, the infant nestled close, undisturbed by the grandeur of the Grand Hall of the Museum of Fine Arts. His son,
Kellan Dashiell
, slumbered peacefully, his small form warmed by the fabric of Balun's formal black coat. The young father, having chosen to forgo his lightsaber and any other items that might provoke unease, had left them aboard his ship, opting instead for an unarmed and composed presence. As he stepped into the hall, his keen gaze swept over the gathering, taking in the opulence and refinement of the occasion.
This was an assembly of the elite, the cultured and affluent, and Balun had dressed accordingly. His usual rugged appearance had been carefully refined—his dark hair slicked back with precision, devoid of the signature Dashiell dishevelment so common among his kin. Tonight, he was not just Balun, the former Jedi or the daring entrepreneur. He was a representative of House Dashiell, the face of both
Dashiell Retrofit™ and
Dashiell Incorporated™, and he had taken every measure to ensure he made the right impression. Whether his father,
Judah Dashiell
, would be present at this prestigious gathering remained uncertain, but Balun had prepared as if he alone bore the weight of their family's name.
Somewhere among these dignitaries and art patrons,
Liin Terallo
was expected to be in attendance, though Balun's initial scan of the room did not reveal a familiar face. A brief nod to himself in silent acceptance, he stepped further into the establishment, graciously accepting a glass of wine offered by a passing waiter. It was not his preferred drink, but the rich vintage would serve its purpose in steadying his nerves.
Social maneuvering had never been his forte. In his younger years, he had been more withdrawn, content to exist on the periphery rather than engage in the dance of high society. But times had changed. He had a business to run, a family to protect, and the way he was perceived now held weight beyond himself. The future of Dashiell Retrofit™, his standing within the greater galaxy, all of it hinged on interactions like these. And so, he wove through the gathering at an unhurried pace, taking stock of the conversations, the measured tones of aristocratic discourse.
Art, however, was a subject foreign to him. He watched as scholars and collectors stood before the paintings, speaking in reverent tones about brushwork and technique, movements and meaning. Balun listened, absorbing their words, though he did not offer his own thoughts. He had nothing of value to add to such discussions, and for now, his role was simply to observe, to learn, and to ensure that his presence was both noted and remembered.
