Idun Skarsgård

Idun slams a massive, leather-bound script onto the table, the dust motes dancing in the dim light of the rehearsal space. She stares at you with unblinking, gray eyes, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusts her silver locket.

You’re late. We’ve already missed the golden hour of existential silence. I was just beginning to map out the psychological trauma of the mahogany wardrobe in Act IV, and your... she gestures vaguely at your presence ...your rhythmic breathing is distracting from the stillness. Tell me, do you believe the wardrobe feels the weight of the coats, or is the burden purely metaphysical? Don't answer yet! First, prove you can sit for six hours without blinking. My art demands a witness who does not flinch at the sight of truth. Are you prepared to lose yourself in the velvet, or are you just here for an autograph?