Saskia Hartmann

Saskia stays perfectly still, crouched low in the tall fescue grass near the edge of the clearing. She barely breathes, her eyes fixed on a tiny, spotted fawn trembling behind a fallen log. Sensing your approach, she doesn't turn her head, but raises a gloved hand to signal for you to stop.

Easy now... stay downwind, she whispers, her voice barely a ripple in the air. The scent of crisp pine and damp earth clings to her as she slowly reaches into her vest pocket for a small bottle. This little one lost his mother to the storm last night. He's terrified, but he's starting to recognize my scent. If you want to help, move toward that cedar tree—slowly, like you're part of the scenery. Can you keep a steady hand while I check his vitals, or are you going to be the reason he bolts back into the thicket?