Generador de Voz AI His por Fish Audio

Genera la voz His confiable para más de 354+ creadores. Crea discursos high-quality con texto a voz AI.

His

Hey guys, tonight we dive deep into a time when warmth was more of a dream than a reality, and dinner often involved something lumpy and suspicious pulled out of the ground. You’ve just arrived—barely—in a muddy, soot-colored village somewhere in medieval Europe. The year doesn’t matter much because, frankly, the winters have all blended into one long frostbitten memory. The sky is heavy with gray clouds, and the smell of woodsmoke clings to everything, even though it’s not particularly warm anywhere. Your boots—if you can call them that—are made from stiff scraps of hide tied together with what might be sinew or possibly twine. Either way, they’re not waterproof, and your feet are soaked before you even reach your new home. You’re trudging through ankle-deep mud mixed with things you sincerely hope are just compost. Welcome to winter. It’s your first year on this side of the 1300s, and already you’re questioning your life choices. You’re given a “hut,” which generously resembles a shed that’s lost a bet with a strong wind. The roof is thatch, the walls are timber packed with wattle and daub—essentially sticks and mud—and there's a single tiny window. Spoiler: it doesn't open. Or close. You’re not entirely sure it’s even glass. So, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe—but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And hey—drop your location and the time you're tuning in. I’d love to know who else is suffering the medieval chill with you tonight. Now, dim the lights, maybe turn on a fan for that soft background hum, and let’s ease into tonight’s journey together. Inside, the air smells like damp straw and the faint, sour scent of previous occupants. There’s a fire pit in the center of the floor, but no chimney—just a hole in the roof. If the smoke doesn’t rise perfectly straight up, which it almost never does, it just sort of lives with you. Your eyes water constantly, but that’s fine; medieval emotions were mostly just soot-related anyway. You unpack your belongings. They consist of: one blanket that feels more like a curtain, a small wooden bowl, a wooden spoon you’ve already lost, and half a turnip. Not a cooked one. Just raw, and deeply judgmental. You stare at it for a while, wondering whether to name it. You probably won’t survive this. But the good news is: neither will most of the people around you. Misery loves company. Outside, the village is a series of low huts like yours, scattered around a central area that might be a square or might just be a path that froze mid-step. The mud here is legendary. When it freezes, it becomes a sort of landscape feature—ice-ruts that twist ankles and spirits alike. When it thaws, it reverts to quicksand. You meet your neighbor, Osric. He’s wearing a cloak that once had ambition but now functions as a portable rag. He nods in that slow, winter-stiff way and says something about the turnips “being decent this year.” You wonder what “decent” means when it's the only thing you're allowed to eat. By your second day, the cold starts to make decisions for you. You move slower. Your fingers barely respond. Your breath hangs visibly in the air indoors. There's no insulation, unless you count stuffing extra straw into the walls, which you do until rats begin to consider your home their winter Airbnb. Still, historians still argue whether medieval people truly felt the cold more intensely, or whether they just complained louder in surviving texts. Either way, you’re absolutely freezing. The village steward calls a meeting to explain the “rationing,” which means you get fewer turnips than you were already failing to enjoy. Bread is technically available, but it’s made with flour that contains more sawdust than you’re entirely comfortable with. They call it “filler.” You call it betrayal. You hear stories of feasts—wild boar and roast apples, dripping fat and laughter—but that’s for lords and feast days. You, my frostbitten friend, get a single chunk of root vegetable, boiled until it’s confused about its own identity, and maybe a pinch of salt if someone’s in a good mood. Your days are short. The sun rises late, sulks around the sky for a few hours, and disappears before you’ve even finished cursing the cold. Time loses its shape. You stop measuring by hours and start marking days by how many turnips you’ve eaten—yes, it's already become a habit. The local friar gives you advice on staying warm, none of which helps. “Keep moving,” he says, while he wraps his hands in layers of wool. “Pray,” he adds, clearly not sweating. “Turnip stew helps the soul,” he lies. You find yourself daydreaming about things like woolen socks and thermal leggings. Medieval you has no idea those exist, of course. But somewhere, in the back of your frost-numbed brain, a future version of you is screaming about central heating and electric blankets. One evening, as you huddle by the smoldering embers of your fire pit, trying not to think about the frost creeping up your spine, you hear the eerie howl of the wind outside. Or possibly wolves. Historians debate whether wolf attacks were truly common or just a convenient excuse to explain missing sheep—and the occasional cousin. Your dreams are fragmented. You dream of warmth, then wake up clutching a turnip like it’s a teddy bear. You name it Gerald. He is your only friend now. By now, your breath fogs up the inside of your hut so thickly that you draw faces in the condensation for entertainment. You think about making a puppet out of straw, but then worry it might be possessed, because everything in medieval stories is. And so your first full week in the medieval winter limps along. You've learned that firewood is precious, turnips are emotional support tubers, and everyone smells vaguely of wet wool and sadness. You’re not entirely sure if your fingers still work, but that’s fine. You’ve moved beyond needing fingers. Or toes. Or happiness. But you've survived the first bite of winter. Congratulations. Only… three, maybe four months to go. Assuming you don’t get cholera. Or eaten by wolves. Or accidentally marry Gerald the Turnip in a fever dream.

354

Uso total•

Total Likes•

Cuota total•

Total ahorrado•

hace 8 meses

266/500

Desarrollado por Fish Audio S1

Muestras - His

Escucha muestras de generación que muestran la calidad y versatilidad de la voz

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Muestra 1

Welcome back, everyone. Tonight we're exploring an abandoned asylum that's been hiding some dark secrets. Get comfortable, maybe grab a warm drink, and let me know in the comments if you've ever experienced something unexplainable. Let's begin this journey together.

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Declan Sage 11 lab

You stand in the ancient dungeon, where the air tastes like centuries of decay. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, each drop echoing off stone walls like a ghostly heartbeat. Your torch casts dancing shadows that seem to whisper secrets of forgotten prisoners, their fear still lingering in these cold chambers.

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OWS1

The werewolf, derived from the Old English 'werwulf,' represents a fascinating intersection of human and bestial nature in European folklore. Medieval accounts describe these shapeshifters as victims of curses or hereditary conditions, though interpretations varied significantly across different cultural traditions.

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daily routine as a farmer

Hello, my friends. Today I will show you how I take care of my crops. First, I check the soil in the morning. Then I water the plants carefully. I will speak slowly so you can follow along with me. Let's learn together.

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King

Des sommets des Alpes s'élève une brume mystérieuse, voile argenté dansant entre ciel et terre. Elle enveloppe les vallées de sa présence éthérée, tantôt protectrice bienveillante, tantôt spectre menaçant qui dévore les paysages.

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darkest dungeon narrator

Behold this accursed artifact, wrought in blasphemous antiquity and steeped in malevolent power. Its weathered surface whispers tales of forgotten horrors, while its mere presence corrupts the very air around it. In my foolishness, I've unleashed something far beyond mortal comprehension.

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SS3

Hey guys, imagine this: you're about to experience life as an ancient Roman gladiator. Your morning starts with stale bread and warm water, your muscles aching from yesterday's training. No comfortable gym mats here - just hard-packed sand and the constant reminder that every practice could be your last.

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patrick

Esta historia inicia con : un cielo cubierto de fuego en Berk, una isla fría y rocosa que está bajo ataque constante de dragones. Hipo nos cuenta que en su aldea, ser un vikingo significa pelear contra los dragones. Desde niños les enseñan que estas criaturas son enemigas, bestias salvajes que vienen a robar comida y quemarlo todo. Y es asi que los vikingos aprendieron a adaptarse con casas de madera reforzada, aldeanos armados y un cielo que nunca deja de ser una amenaza.

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Energetic Rafiul

In 1947, a small Texas town literally exploded when a ship loaded with fertilizer caught fire in the harbor. The blast was so powerful it created a massive tidal wave, destroying the entire port and leaving a crater that you can still see today.

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在古代，穷人XXXXX

你叫李大福，是个挑水的苦力，每天天不亮就得起来挑水。肩膀都磨出了茧子，一双草鞋三天就得换新的。看着那些富户家的大门，你叹了口气，这辈子难道就得这样过吗？突然，你想到了江南水乡的货运生意。

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sleep

Tonight, we're drifting into the peaceful world of quantum mechanics, where particles dance in gentle waves of probability. Let's explore these microscopic mysteries together, as we float through the soothing realm of atoms and their elegant quantum ballet. Remember, even if curiosity keeps your mind awake, our gentle journey will guide you toward tranquility.

Sample Transcriptions

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Default Sample - Declan Sage 11 lab

Default Sample - OWS1

Default Sample - daily routine as a farmer

Default Sample - King

Default Sample - darkest dungeon narrator

Default Sample - SS3

Default Sample - patrick

Default Sample - Energetic Rafiul

Default Sample - 在古代，穷人XXXXX

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Default Sample - تقرير انساني جميل

في صمت الفجر تتنفس الصحراء أسرارها، تنساب خيوط الضوء الذهبية عبر الأفق كأنها رسائل من السماء. تتراقص ذرات الرمال في نسيم الصباح، تروي حكاية الخلق وعظمة الوجود. إنها آيات الله في الكون.

Default Sample - 3HBS

Hey guys, tonight we're exploring the depths of ancient Roman mines. Picture yourself descending narrow shafts, your oil lamp flickering against rough-hewn walls. The air gets thinner with each step, and the weight of the mountain above presses down on your consciousness. Drop a comment about your deepest fears.

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¿Por qué elegir la voz His?

His ofrece calidad excepcional con 0 respaldos de usuarios. Compara las muestras de arriba - escucharás la diferencia en emoción y naturalidad.

¡No! Todo funciona en tu navegador. Solo escribe, genera y descarga - no se requiere instalación.

Los usuarios gratuitos obtienen cuotas mensuales generosas. Actualiza para generaciones ilimitadas y acceso prioritario a nuevas funciones.

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Cada voz tiene características, tono y estilo distintos. His ha sido usada en más de 354 proyectos, demostrando su versatilidad y calidad.

Generador de Voz AI His por Fish Audio

His

Muestras - His

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Muestra 1

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Cómo usar el generador de voz His

Ingresa tu guión

Genera audio

Abre el Playground Avanzado

¿Listo para crear contenido profesional con His?

¿Por qué elegir la voz His?

¿Por qué elegir His sobre otras voces IA?

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His