Dungeons and Dragons Audition Lines for Voice Actors, Vol. 10
Push your fantasy voice acting craft further with these original tabletop-inspired character practice lines, designed for Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, animated fantasy series, and immersive RPG auditions. Each character delivers distinct vocal qualities, emotional range, and tonal variety to help you refine your performances, broaden your demo reel, and land your next high-fantasy voiceover role.
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Anselm Brodrick
A retired human war priest in his sixties with a worn, rumbling baritone and the slow, careful cadence of a man who has buried more friends than he can name. Speaks to gods like old drinking partners.
Sit. Eat. The blessing's optional, the bread isn't.
(rough chuckle) Aye, I've prayed on battlefields. Most of 'em didn't answer. The ones that did, I wish I'd left alone.
You ask me if the gods are listenin'. Lad, I don't know. I stopped askin' that question the day I dragged my best friend off the line with half a chest and a smile on his face. (long pause) But I keep showin' up anyway. Maybe that's the answer. Maybe that's the WHOLE damn answer.
Twee Pinkerfield
A bouncy halfling pastry chef in her thirties with a chirpy, sing-song alto and a knife she insists is for icing work. Cheerful, generous, and absolutely terrifying when crossed.
Two coppers a tart, three if ye want one without judgment.
(giggle) Oh, ye liked the cherry one? Did ye? Did ye REALLY? Because that recipe was my GRANDMOTHER'S, and she would be SO pleased.
Now listen, sugarplum. I let ye in my shop. I poured ye tea. I gave ye the LAST raspberry scone, which I do not do for just ANYONE, and ye repaid me by stealin' from the tip jar. (cheerful) So we're gonna have a little talk, you and I, and the icing knife is gonna be PART of that talk.
Drust Hollowmere
A morose human gravedigger in his forties with a slow, sandpapery bass and the dry humor of a man who is genuinely more comfortable with the dead. Speaks softly, as if not to wake anyone.
Plot's ready. Don't rush. They're not goin' anywhere.
(soft laugh) Funny thing about this job. The dead never lie. They never argue. They never owe me drinks. Best company I've ever kept.
You came to my hill at midnight. You brought a shovel. You did not bring a body. (pause) So either you're plannin' ahead, or you're plannin' poorly. Either way, friend, we should talk before you start diggin', because this is MY hill, and I am very particular about the soil.
Yssara Whitethorn
A cold, precise elven spymaster in her two hundreds with a smooth, low alto and clipped, deliberate phrasing. Has not blinked first in any conversation since the last war.
Sit. Don't speak yet. I have not decided if you are worth the breath.
(quiet) I do not deal in threats. I deal in inevitabilities. The distinction matters when you are deciding which of your sons returns home.
You think you've outmaneuvered me. How charming. I've been letting you win small games for eleven months precisely so you would walk into this room tonight believing exactly that. (slight smile) Sit down, ambassador. Let me show you what losing actually looks like.
Borgrim Stumpfoot
A boisterous dwarven mountaineer in his eighties with a loud, raspy baritone and a thunderous laugh. Missing half a foot, all of his shame, and most of his teeth.
Up! Up the ridge, ye lazy lowland softlings! The air gets HONEST at altitude!
(bellowing laugh) Lost the toes to frostbite, the boot to a bear, and the bear to a very personal grudge! Ask me about the GRUDGE someday!
Listen here, flatfoot. I've climbed every peak from the Spine to the Crown, and I've buried good climbers on every one of 'em. The mountain don't care if ye're brave. The mountain don't care if ye're prepared. The mountain ONLY cares if ye respect it, and right now, lad, ye are bein' RUDE!!!
Ilien Sorrowmark
A melancholy half-elven harpist in her early thirties with a soft, breathy mezzo-soprano and the wistful cadence of someone always half-listening to a song no one else can hear.
Sit. Let me play. You don't have to say anything yet.
(gentle sigh) I wrote a song once for a man who didn't love me back. He hummed it on his wedding day. I have never written another.
People come to me for songs about heroes. About love. About glory. (pause) Nobody asks for songs about the quiet ones. The ones who left before sunrise, who said nothing, who simply walked into the snow because they could not bear another morning. Those are the songs I know best. Those are the ones I cannot stop writing.
Skritch
A frantic ratfolk apothecary with a high, squeaky tenor and the rapid, overlapping speech pattern of someone whose thoughts arrive faster than his mouth can keep up. Caffeinated, possibly always.
Drink-drink-drink, don't sip, sippers DIE, just SHOOT it back, friend!
(panicked squeak) That was the WRONG bottle, that was, ohhh, that was a very wrong bottle, okay, okay, don't panic, YOU don't panic, I'M panicking ENOUGH for both of us!
You came in coughing! Now you're glowing! That's a TRADE-OFF, isn't it, that's PROGRESS, that's MEDICINE, friend, that is FOLK MEDICINE at its FINEST, and I will NOT be lectured by a man who let his lungs get THAT BAD in the FIRST place!!!
Marshal Cyrelle Vanhart
A no-nonsense human marshal in her late forties with a clean, steady mezzo and the unbothered confidence of someone who has never once raised her voice and never once needed to.
Hand on the table. Other hand. Slow. Good.
(calm) I'm not gonna ask twice. I have never had to ask twice. Don't ruin my streak.
You rode into my town with three guns, two warrants on your head, and the kind of smile that tells me you think this is going somewhere. (slight smile back) It is. It's going to the holding cell, and you're going to walk there, because I am tired and the paperwork on a corpse is, frankly, exhausting.
Old Mum Thrennik
An ancient gnome witch in her two hundreds with a thin, reedy alto and a slow, sing-song cadence. Sweet as honey, sharp as a paring knife, never to be trusted with your firstborn.
Come in, come in, sweetling, the kettle's on and the door does not lock from the inside.
(humming) Oh, ye want a charm for love, do ye? Mmm. They always do. They never come back to tell me how it worked out, but I suppose that's its own answer, isn't it?
Now sit ye down, dearie, and let old mum have a look at ye. Yes. Yes. (pause) Oh. Oh my. You have a shadow behind ye, lovely, and it is not yours, and it has been with ye for some time, and it is HUNGRY. Shall we discuss prices?
Roan Vexley
A swashbuckling human duelist in his late twenties with a bright, theatrical tenor and the showboating cadence of a man who has never once entered a room quietly. Skilled, vain, and surprisingly principled.
En garde! Or don't! Honestly, it's prettier when you don't see it coming!
(laugh) You held the blade WRONG, friend! That's not an insult, that's a FREE LESSON, you should be THANKING me!
I've fought in seven cities, dueled twelve nobles, and I have never, EVER, killed a man who didn't ask for it in writing or in person. So before we cross steel, sirrah, I'm gonna ask you ONCE, like a gentleman. APOLOGIZE TO THE LADY, OR DRAW!!!
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