The Name of the Wind - Prologue: A Silence of Three Parts

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Narrating the prologue for the first book in the Kingkiller Chronicles: The Name of the Wind.

Vocal Characteristics



Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)


North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US West Coast - California, Portland)


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
prologue. A silence of three parts. It was night again. The way stone in lay in silence. And it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind, it would have side through the trees, set the in sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the in, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter. The clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of the night, if there had been music, but no, of course there was no music. In fact, there were none of these things. And so the silence remained inside the waist own a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this, they added a small, sullen silence to the larger Hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts a counterpoint. The 3rd silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot, and in the rough splintering barrels behind the bar it was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar, and it was in the hands of the man, who stood there polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight. The man had true red hair red, his flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things The way stone was his. Just as the 3rd silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumns ending. It was heavy as a great river, smooth stone. It was the patient cut flower sound of a man who was waiting to die.