Stephen Daly - Irish Audiobook Narration Demo
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
Irish (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Chapter one, The old house was set back off the road down a long, curved driveway lined with maple trees. Their autumn display glorious the week before, have been blown to smithereens by a storm that had battered the Dublin suburb of Fox Rock for two days. The wind had dropped in the early hours, and now fat grey clouds sat waiting for their turn to wreak havoc. But the maple trees had already given in their autumn finery shed, they settled down to wait for the spring. Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West murmured nice as he navigated the entrance between two stone pillars and drove slowly towards the house. He and his partner going to Peter Andrews. We're responding to a call for assistance from uniformed guard. The who had earlier inserted emergency call from a panicked family west, staring an appreciation of the beautiful home that appeared in front of him, thought it was an unsuitable place to find a dead body off the short journey from Fox Rock Garda station. Neither man had bothered to speculate on what they might discover. They know soon enough, there was plenty of time to begin the long round of speculation and investigation where they decided it warranted it. Suspicious debts didn't always mean murder, but standard procedure meant they treated it as such. Until told otherwise. West parked on the paved semi circle in front of the imposing house between an old but perfect BMW, a fairly new Ford fiesta, a buttered radio and an ambulance whose crew were sitting in the front. The rise shut. Their service is currently redundant. That's Doc's, Andrew said, nodding towards the Renault and referring to doctoral Holleran, who, along with his occasional work for the guard he had a small practise in the village We were looking. He was available. West stepped out of the car, his eyes drawn to the beautiful house. It's classic lines and mellow brickwork drawing a side of appreciation. Andrew's, however, was staring up the obelisk clouds with distrustful interest. It's going to choke it down. Look at that sky, he complained with a grumble equal to the distant sound of thunder, grey eyes narrowed and impatience. You're standing in front of an amazing piece of architecture, and all you could do is to complain about the weather. You're a philistine piece. Joyce has organised 1/5 birthday party for Petey Andrew, said Club Lee. On Saturday, 20 of his friends will be descending on our very small house. If this blasted, dreadful weather keeps up, they will have to stay indoors. That's not being a philistine. That's being a realist. Or maybe, he added, reconsidering a survivalist. The two men, each with their own thoughts and concerns, headed up the Warren stone steps to the front door, where a uniformed guards greeted them and directed them to the hub off the more immediate matter. Not that there was anything pressing about a dead body, it wasn't going to get any more dead, no last.