Générateur vocal IA Frede gratuit par Fish Audio

Générez la voix Frede, utilisée 1 fois avec 0 likes. Créez un discours high-quality avec la synthèse vocale IA.

Frede

Hey there, the drowsy history here. Tonight you are not dying in a trench or coughing blood in a factory alley. No, your decline is much quieter, much more civilized. You live in Georgian London, where illness is fashionable. Treatment comes in a cut glass vial, and suffering is considered tasteful so long as it doesn't interrupt the dinner party. You are pale, well-dressed, and politely unwell. The doctors say it's just your nerves or your bile or your nature. Fortunately, there's something for that. A tincture. Just a few drops taken regularly indefinitely. Before we begin this slow descent into sweetened poison, polite dismissal, and the faint chemical warmth of forgetting, do me one small favor. Tell me where you're listening from and what time it is there. If you'd prefer these stories without ads, you can join the Patreon. It's linked in the description. And if you're listening in bed tonight, consider using a pair of sleep mask headphones to achieve the ultimate immersive experience. I've linked my favorite pair in the description. Now, lie back, get comfortable. Let's begin. You're 27, the wife of a solicitor, and recently recovered from what the doctor called a difficult confinement. The child did not live. You did, although you're not entirely certain why. You've been bleeding off and on ever since. Not dangerously, just inconveniently. You sleep in the day and lie awake at night. You cry sometimes for no clear reason. You feel cold when it's warm and too warm when it's cold. There is nothing visibly wrong with you, which in George and London means no one is quite sure how to help. You live in a neat little terrace house just off Bedford Row. The street is quiet, the neighbors dull, and the shutter's always rattling with wind that doesn't appear on anyone else's street. There is a maid, barely 16, who carries hot bricks to your bed when you shiver. She doesn't make eye contact. Your husband does occasionally over the top of the paper at dinner when he remembers. He is not unkind. He simply has things to attend to. Court filings, retainers, the burden of being publicly competent. You used to be presentable, sharp even. You played the harps accord with enough skill to warrant applause in polite company. You attended dinner parties. You remembered names. Now your fingers tremble when you button your cuffs. Your letters go half finished. You stare at window glass and forget what you meant to do. People say things like, "It's the grief." Or, "She's delicate." They mean, "Well, you wish they wouldn't." The physician has been visiting twice a week since the birth. A private man with a mild limp and a breath that smells faintly of clothes. He taps your wrist, glances in your eyes, and asks the same three questions in the same patient tone. "Do you sleep through the night? Have you taken nourishment? Any thoughts of an unnatural kind? You answer, "Not quite some." No. He nods, scribbles a few lines in his ledger, and tells you to take more broth. Then he closes the book as if that's the end of it. Last week, he suggested leeches. You said yes. You said yes to everything he's ever recommended. And still, you feel thin, like the air moves through you instead of around you. The pain is not sharp, but it lingers low in the back, behind the ribs, or sometimes just behind the eyes. You've tried putting words to it. Ache, pressure, emptiness, but none of them seem quite right. It is not a pain that wounds. It is a pain that hovers, familiar as your own breath. You know it will follow you into the next room. Today, the doctor doesn't ask questions. He walks in, nods toward the window, and makes a small comment about the wind. You murmur agreement. He sits, looks you over, and says, "You're not improving." His tone is kind, but his expression is not particularly moved. "You ought to sleep more," he says. "It's the nerves or the strain or a failure of tone in the blood." He doesn't sound confident, but you've stopped expecting confidence. He opens his satchel. You watch him uncap a small ink bottle, dip his pen, and write out a label with your name and the number 25. Then he tears the page, folds it, and seals it with a flick of his fingers. Lorden, he says, handing it to you. Take it sparingly. The apothecary sends it. The next morning, a pale boy in a soot streaked apron knocks on the tradesman's door behind the house, mutters your surname, and places a small wrapped parcel in the maid's hand. You watch from the stairs. The boy does not look up. He vanishes without waiting for acknowledgement. You carry the parcel up to your room like it might bleed if jostled. You sit on the edge of your bed to unwrap it. The glass is dark brown and cool to the touch. The label is written in your doctor's careful hand. Mrs. L, 25 drops. Beneath that, a smaller note. As needed, you turn it over. No ingredients, no further explanation. You know Lordinham by reputation, the way one knows of absence or arsenic.

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Échantillons - Frede

Valerie, look I dont like your trust issues, I am not some fake ass here, I need your help Valerie, and this misunderstanding is because my phone is messing up, and I am sorry what I said just now, let me be the one to make your mornings beautiful. Let me cook your favorite breakfast, I want to be your peace, your comfort, your everything. Let's build this dream together.

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FREDY

¡No puede ser, men! Ayer me encontré con los patas en el malecón y nos quedamos hasta re tarde conversando. Puta, qué buena vibra. Me hace acordar cuando íbamos al regata todos los fines, mano.

No... ¡que va ! Me gusta edy, cuando el me abraza

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Fredo

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FREDY

¡No puede ser, men! Ayer me encontré con los patas en el malecón y nos quedamos hasta re tarde conversando. Puta, qué buena vibra. Me hace acordar cuando íbamos al regata todos los fines, mano.

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No... ¡que va ! Me gusta edy, cuando el me abraza

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¡No puede ser, men! Ayer me encontré con los patas en el malecón y nos quedamos hasta re tarde conversando. Puta, qué buena vibra. Me hace acordar cuando íbamos al regata todos los fines, mano.

Default Sample - Fredo

Hey Valerie, I see you have a beautiful family, But the rest of your life you are spending it with me baby, I will be your peace when the world gets too loud, Let me hold your hand through every storm, celebrate your victories, and wipe away your tears. I love you baby

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¿Te has preguntado cuánto cuesta un blanqueamiento dental profesional? Los precios varían entre 3,000 y 8,000 pesos, dependiendo del método que elijas. Yo me lo hice hace dos meses y tengo todo el proceso documentado en mi perfil. Compártelo con ese amigo que toma más café que agua.

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Frede génère une parole ultra-réaliste avec une émotion et un ton naturels. Écoutez les échantillons ci-dessus pour entendre la qualité. Plus de 1 créateurs font confiance à cette voix.

Générateur vocal IA Frede gratuit par Fish Audio

Frede

Échantillons - Frede

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Frede