The lights of the main expo hall dim as the final slide of Solavara Elyss' presentation fades into black. A hush falls across the crowd. A reverent, electrified silence.
Backstage, Vaela stands arm-in-arm with Thalos, her emerald suit shimmering faintly beneath the stage lights bleeding in from the wings. Her eyes are locked onto the woman on stage, transfixed.
Solavara stands tall, wrapped in an asymmetrical forest-green pantsuit of woven silk and leaf-lace. Her hair, a cascade of vine-like coils, shimmers with streaks of gold, and her voice carries like a battle cry wrapped in velvet.
"We are stewards of this planet, not its conquerors," she declares, her dryad magic causing faint glimmers of green light to shimmer along the edges of the stage. "Every root we tear, every river we poison for profit, is a wound on ourselves. I will not let greed erase what the world gifted us freely."
