Comedic Audiobook Narration
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
begin reading. This is the bright, candlelit room where the life timers air stored shelf upon shelf of them. Squad our glasses, one for every living person poured their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated hissed ce of the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea. This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His name is death, but not any death. This is the death whose particulate sphere of operations is, well, not a sphere. It all but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star turtle great between and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endlessly into space. Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that 1,000,000 to 1 chance is crop up nine times out of 10 death clicks across the black and white tiled floor, on toes of bone muttering inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy our glasses. Finally, he finds one that seems to satisfy him, lifts it carefully from its shelf and carries it across to the nearest candle. He holds it so that the light glints off it and stares at the little point of reflected brilliance. The steady gaze from those twinkling eye sockets encompasses the world turtle sculling through the deeps of space carapace scarred by comets and pitted by Meteors. One day, even great between will die. Death knows now that would be a challenge. But the focus of his gaze dives onwards towards the blue green magnificence of the disk itself, turning slowly under its tiny orbiting sun. Now it curves away towards the great mountain range called the Ram Tops. The ram tops are full of deep valleys and unexpected Craig's and considerably more geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar weather, full of shrapnel, reign and whiplash winds and permanent thunderstorms. Some people say it's all because the ram tops are the home of old wild magic. Mind you, some people will say anything. Death blinks, adjust for depth of vision. Now he sees the grassy country on the turn wise slopes of the mountains. Now he sees a particular hillside Now he sees a field. Now he sees a boy running. Now he watches now in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite. He says Yes. There was no doubt that there was something magical in the soil of that hilly broken area, which, because of the strange tent that it gave to the local flora, was known as the Oct Arendt grass Country. For example, it was one of the few places on the disk where plans produced re annual varieties. Re annuals are plants that grow backwards in time. You sow the seeds this year, and they grow. Last year, Mort's family specialized in distilling the wine from re annual grapes. These were very powerful and much sought after by fortune tellers, since, of course, they enabled them to see the future. The only snack was that you got the hangover the morning before and had to drink a lot to get over it. Re annual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection and close examination of the calendar. Ah, farmer who neglects to so ordinary seeds only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that has already been harvested 12 months before, risks disturbing the entire fabric of cause ality not to mention acute embarrassment. It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the kind of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learned to dread.