How to Heal a Gryphon - Children's - Italian dialect - Fantasy
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Teen (13-17)Accents
Italian (American) Italian (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Stop. I scream over the sound. The cackle dies off until the only sound is the ever present shrieking violin. A strange comfort after that terrible noise, Madre clears her throat while wiping a tear from her eye with one of her long red fingernails. You'll have to excuse me, dear. I forget your ears aren't yet attuned to Malay's sounds. Where is he? He's here where I stomped my foot, impatience radiating off my skin. I want to see him. Madre takes several steps forward until she's only a few feet in front of me and taps her cane on a round door. I didn't see before sitting in the marble floors. Center tap, tap, tap the sound echoes booming in time with my heartbeat. Are you sure you want to see your brother dear? I nod despite suddenly being not so sure. After all, a weight sits in my belly and every hair on my neck stands up straight. I feel cny stro inch closer to me and Madre moves back just as the door slides open with a yawning groan. A large gilded cage twirls up from the cavernous hole at the center of the room. I guess it's not at all what I expected. The cage's floor is lined with a soft fluffy white carpet surrounding its walls are overstuffed, purple and green silk feather pillows on a silver platter at its center is a plate of roasted Branzino smothered in lemons and capers and a diamond encrusted goblet filled with white wine tucked into a pile of pillows with his knees bent to his chest and his head buried in his arms. His Rocco, a sob escapes from my lips and tears spring to my eyes. He's never looked so small, so exhausted. But the strangest thing is that not one hair is out of place on his head. There are no bruises, no scrapes or blood. Even his normally mud caked boots appear to have been cleaned and polished. My palms. Sweat and my throat goes dry. I rush to the cage and grip the cold metal bars. Roco I'm here to rescue you. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come for me. Are you OK? I bite back the sob clawing its way up my throat. You don't look injured. He swoops his hair back with a hand and looks at me. It's then that I see what they put him through.