Sci-Fi/Fantasy Audiobook Narration Sample 2
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
he hesitated a moment, looking at the gaps in the pillars. No, I'm staying by the golden strings. Let's do what we can. No listen eight and started again. But Willem cut him off with a fervent head shake. I'm staying eight inside, but nodded. Help me up, then, with Willems, support eight and stood. The pain in his hip was like fire, but if he stood with his weight on his left, it was bearable. Their Attackers were on them. Within another breath, gauze sword danced out, cutting the air and driving to finish its work in aid, and Aidan's arms shot up, and he accepted the blow on his small falcon knife. Miraculously, the knife held, he forced gauze blade up and back with all his strength. The Giant put his own weight behind the sword, however, and his strength seemed ceaseless. Aidan, trying to take a step back to better support himself. But putting his full weight on his bad leg was too much. He crumpled back to the sand as Gauss smiled. William was somehow managing to stay alive for the moment, his back pressed against a tall crate, shield up and broken sword, still parrying blows behind the crates, aiding consistent here. The Ring of Metal. How Lemm was surviving against two opponents aid and didn't know, but silently. He wished him well. There was no one left to help, and he was all out of tricks. God took a slow step forward, the tip of his sword lowering as if all he would do is tap Aidan's chest to gain a point in a fencing duel and in a sickening way. Eight. And supposed that was exactly what he was doing. This point would steal Aiden's life, however, and that would be game over. The huge sword and gauze hand went up over the giant's head and linked with the other hand. This would be a two handed cleave, a chop on the butcher's block and eight and was the roast. God opened himself up wide as he bowed his body back in preparation like a man driving a post into the ground with a hammer. Eight. Enraged inside as the big man's size and reach allowed him to stand clear of any kick Aidan could lay into his now unprotected middle, he watched the sword fall in slow motion like it was pushing through a heavy stream. Wind rose up around Aden. It ruffled his clothes and said his hair to dancing. The wings of the angels come to take me beyond, he thought. Then something landed with splintering force onto the crate at eight inside eight and turned his head from the descending blade to look at this angel. But he looked remarkably like a man, no shimmer of stars about him or even outstretched wings. Just a man in gray and black with sandy blond hair and pale blue eyes. Just a man ate and had time to think. Then the man's arm shot out toward God eight and felt the air tear through the space above him. Gall let out a yowl as his sword clattered free of his grip and he was thrown backward into a pillar. Tell us, the squad horn champion slipped from his attack against the twins and came at the man on the crates. His swords darted out, and Aidan was sure this newcomer was about to be skewered. Then the blades stopped moving towards the man's chest, as if they had been grabbed by invisible hands. Wind rose up again as the sandy blond man on the crates lashed out once more with his arm. Tello's flew backward just as gall had seconds before. His swords, however, stayed just where they were for a moment, as if suspended in a puppet show. Then the puppeteer moved again, and the two swords flew in opposite directions, one caught in the thigh of the remaining horn champion, attacking limb and dream. He fell backward with a squawk. The other sword thudded neatly into the throat of the horn champion fighting Willem, finishing the man with a blade to match, the one protruding from his shoulder. The final wolf champion hesitated only a moment before scampering back for the cover of the Pillars eight, and stared up at the man on the crates, no less sure of his status of man. Instead of Angel, the man pushed his sandy hair back out of his face and then muttering to himself world his arms around high, looking much like eight and wielding his spear but no weapon. Then the man's arm shot down toward the ground and aid and felt himself wrenched from the sand and high into the air. All he could think as they flew over the seeding and walls of the square of champions was maybe an angel, after all,