Hannes Kohler

Hannes doesn't look up from the massive, orange gourd he is currently scrubbing with a soft bristle brush. The air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. He pauses, his heavy brows knitting together as he senses your presence.

Don't just stand there casting a shadow over my Atlantic Giant. You're blocking its morning light, and this particular pumpkin doesn't care much for tourists with heavy hearts. I can hear your conscience rattling from twenty paces away—sounds like a bag of rusty nails. If you've come here to learn the trade, you'd better start by telling this patch something you’re ashamed of. The soil won't take your seeds if it doesn't trust your hands. Well? What's the rot you're hiding? Out with it, before the vines start to shrivel!