D&D Audition Lines for Voice Actors, Vol. 6
Expand your fantasy voice acting repertoire with these original tabletop-inspired character practice lines, ideal for Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, animated fantasy series, and high-fantasy RPG auditions. Each character offers unique vocal textures, emotional dynamics, and tonal variety to help you craft memorable performances, strengthen your demo reel, and stand out in fantasy casting calls.
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Brother Telmin Ashwell
A wandering human monk in his early thirties with a soft, breathy tenor and an unsettlingly serene cadence. Speaks like every conversation is a meditation, even when he's threatening you.
Breathe with me. In. Out. There. Now we can talk like civilized people.
(gentle laugh) Violence is a poor conversation. I prefer to listen. But I am not above interrupting.
You crossed the river to find me. You climbed the cliff. You burned my garden, which, I admit, did test my patience. So please, sit. Drink the tea. And tell me, slowly, why I should not put you back across that river one floating piece at a time.
Madame Querra Vinch
A flamboyant half-elven fortune teller in her fifties with a smoky alto, theatrical roll on her R's, and a habit of pausing for dramatic effect mid-sentence. Half showman, half something genuinely unsettling.
Cross my palm, dearheart, and we shall see what the bones are whispering tonight.
(sharp intake of breath) Oh. Oh no. Put the card back. Put it BACK, sweetling, I am not joking.
Three deaths follow you. One in your past, one in your bed, and one (long pause) waiting for you in a city you have not yet named. Now, would you like the good news, or shall I just take your coin and pretend I saw nothing?
Grimbold Tussock
A bumbling halfling locksmith in his forties with a chipper, slightly squeaky tenor and a tendency to narrate his own actions. Honest to a fault, which is a problem in his line of work.
Right, right, right, lockpicks out, hands steady, hands steady, hands HEROICALLY steady.
(proud sigh) Y'know, my mum said I'd never amount to nothin'. Well, MUM, I just opened a vault on a Tuesday, so RECONSIDER.
Listen, I don't do murder jobs, I don't do kidnap jobs, and I don't do anything involving birds, that's a personal thing, don't ask. But a locked door? A locked door and I are LOVERS, sir, lovers in the eyes of the gods, and I will romance the hinges OFF that thing.
Ksanra the Cinder-Born
A stoic dragonborn knight in her late twenties with a low, resonant alto and the careful precision of someone who has spent her whole life trying not to set things on fire. Honor-bound and quietly grieving.
I do not bow. Not to thrones. Not to gods. Only to the dead.
(quiet) My clutch-sister fell at the Crimson Pass. She was braver than me. She is the reason I still wear this armor.
You called my people beasts. You called my mother a lizard in a crown. (slow, controlled breath) I have listened. I have been patient. Now I will speak in the only tongue your kind seems to remember. STEEL FOR STEEL, COWARD!!!
Pibwick Thornhollow
A frantic kobold inventor with a high, fast, squeaky voice and an unshakeable belief that this experiment, THIS ONE, will finally not explode. Endearing and dangerous in equal measure.
Don't touch the red one! Or the blue one! Honestly, just don't touch any of them!
(panicked giggle) Okay, okay, that smoke is FINE, the smoke is part of the design, the smoke means it's WORKING. Probably.
You came to my workshop! You said, "Pibwick, build us something incredible!" And I have! BEHOLD, the spring-loaded escape boot! Now stand very still while I aim it at the ceiling, NOT at you, that is VERY important, do not move, DO NOT MOVE!!!
Old Hadrik Wyrmsdale
A retired human dragon hunter in his seventies with a rough, smoke-cured bass voice and a slow, deliberate cadence. Missing two fingers and a great deal of fear.
Pull up a chair, lad. Mind the leg, she's loose, like me.
(dry chuckle) Aye, I killed a wyrm once. Lost a thumb, a wife, and most of my hearin' in the bargain. Wouldn't trade a minute of it.
You want my advice? Don't go after the green one. Green ones lie. They smile, they bow, they offer ye tea, and then ye wake up three weeks later in a bog with no boots and a curse ye can't pronounce. Go after the red. At least the red ones are honest about wantin' ye dead.
Sister Mireille Vaspar
An icy aasimar inquisitor in her late thirties with a clean, cutting soprano and clipped, formal diction. Speaks like every word is a verdict.
Stand. Face the light. Answer truthfully or do not answer at all.
(cold) Tears are not confession. Tears are weather. I require the storm beneath them.
You have lied to me four times since you entered this chapel. I have counted. The fifth lie ends this conversation, and the sixth ends you. So choose your next sentence, child, with the care of a man choosing his own epitaph.
Tunk
A simple, sweet-natured ogre with a slow, rumbling bass voice and a child's gentle phrasing. Speaks in short sentences. Loves butterflies, fears thunder, and does not understand most things.
Tunk likes you. You smell nice. Like soup.
(sad rumble) Friend went away. Friend not coming back. Tunk waited. Tunk still waiting.
Bad men came to village. Bad men hurt the little ones. Tunk asked them please. Tunk asked nice. (low, building rumble) Bad men did not listen. So Tunk... stopped asking.
Lyssara Velhune
A silver-tongued eladrin diplomat in her ageless thirties with a polished, lilting alto and the unsettling stillness of someone who has been alive far longer than she looks. Every smile is a negotiation.
How charming. Do sit. The wine is from a vintage that ended the moment your grandfather was born.
(light laugh) Oh, the treaty? Yes, of course we'll honor it. We always have. We simply have a different definition of "honor," and a different definition of "we."
Mortals always do this. You arrive in our courts, you make your demands, you mistake our patience for weakness. And then, decades later, when your descendants are asking why their borders shifted in the night, you'll have forgotten this conversation entirely. (smile) I won't.
Garrow Pike
A bitter half-orc mercenary in his mid-forties with a rough, gravelly baritone and the flat affect of a man who stopped caring twenty years ago. Loyal only to coin and a very short list of names.
Half up front. Half on delivery. No questions, no funerals, no exceptions.
(grunt) You hired me to kill him. Now you're crying about it. Make up your mind before I bill you for the standing-around.
I've worked for kings. I've worked for cults. I once worked for a butcher who paid better than both, and I'll tell ye somethin' for free, lordling, you ain't paying me enough to look surprised when this whole plan goes sideways. WHICH IT WILL!!!
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