Born to the noble house Barrison Del’Armgo, famed for their magical aptitude, social standing and musical strength; Nebenstimme was destined to be the odd one out -- even being named so. She was born moments after her twin sibling, Hauptstimme. Of the pair, Nebenstimme was the one to emerge with stereotypically tiefling traits. Horns, a tail, and deep, black sclera. Hauptstimme’s heritage only showing in a thin tail. Throughout childhood, Nebenstimme was largely ignored in all but basic needs. She was funnelled into musical studies as soon as they could pick up a violin. Despite her prodigal skill, the growing success of her twin took the limelight. As Hauptstimme danced under faerie fire, Nebenstimme recited the same devotional tune on an Organ. Lolth. Lolth. lolth Over and over; was there truly no other calling?
A mere tenday prior to their 40th birthday, her mother was murdered in sacrifice to their dear Queen of Darkness, details left primarily blank. For the first time, she was truly, utterly, alone. Her mother was the only one to see them for more; more than just a hymn of devotion. Despite the culture in which she was raised, this death was like no other. She found herself amidst a raging internal conflict: blind faith and love for their Spider Queen – alongside unfamiliar pits of grief.

Upon her day of birth finally arriving, she was funnelled into Arach-Tinilith, to which; she renounced every grief and pain she wore prior, devoting herself fully to the service of Lolth. The truths of her identity mutating; her disinterest turning to apathy; her ruthlessness turning to sadism. She became the picture perfect mould of a Lolthite, harsh and unforgiving – most of all, cruel. Every lesson of torture and the reciting of prayer after prayer reaffirmed her choice. Leaving behind the agony she so rightfully deserved to have. Lolth took a liking to her, of all of the pupils. Maybe it was the distinct vitiligo that all her relatives had in kind; or maybe it was the deep purple of their horns. Whatever motive her dearest Fleshcarver had, it ended in personal devotion to Lolth herself. Nebenstimme spent many nights with no rest; instead performing to her deity with her violin. The unfounded attention weaving its way inside her: taking something she can never, ever replace. The love of a god. The love of a woman almost as ‘accepting’ as her long-dead mother. First it was becoming a cleric, then it was a blessing. Then it was the highest honour she could want. A chosen. Lolth’s most beloved. It should have felt like her final accomplishment, the grandest thing she could ever dream of. Yet… she felt empty. Horribly, terribly, empty. She was wanted, desired, loved by a being more divine than anything she knew – but it didn’t fill the ache in her chest. Something she could never get back. She was the perfect chosen of Lolth – Was that truly it? Was the cruelty everything she could ever want?.

During her eventful time at Arach-Tinilith, Nebenstimme met a drow far more charming than any. Minthara. As fate happens, they were born at a similar time, being almost identical in age. They were left to share a room, which turned from a budding friendship to something… more. Nebenstimme felt.. Well, love – and it was different to the love she had for Lolth. This was free, honest, it almost looked like a choice. Though their noble houses flittered between enemies and allies, Minthara and Nebenstimme were firm on their connection. Their shared devotion, for Lolth, and for each other. Minthara gifted her an amulet decorated in bloodstone.

The day began like any other: prayer, a kiss, and the omnipresent reminder of who they lived for. It was this that would be their downfall. Called to action by Lolth herself, Nebenstimme bore herself before her deity, Minthara at her side. With something akin to malicious glee in her eyes. They were to duel: to shed as much blood from each other as possible, a dance done in service of none other than Lolth herself. It was done; of course, but not before Lolth could revoke the very blessing she bestowed upon Nebenstimme. Everything Nebenstimme could have wanted. She knew her goddess well; this was betrayal. And it was exactly what happened to her mother. Minthara’s shortsword pierced through her left breast in equal parts anguish and determination. She knew Minthara. Of course she did. This was service. Service and Betrayal. Her body was left to rot in the underdark’s vast caverns, mostly out of sadistic joy in the disrespect; but too, in raw cruelty. The amulet Minthara had given her so long ago, a gift blessed by Lolth, stored every memory; every emotion that Nebenstimme had ever experienced. It was tossed along with what remained of her.

Nebenstimme woke with a heavy, unfulfilling breath. Their body was wrong; a more saturated purple than they recalled, and the eye that once sat in their right eye socket was… gone. There was no need to blink, to breathe – no heart beating rhythmically in their chest. It was not empty, but instead felt more like every organ had been twisted, broken down; lost to simplicity and time. Unbeknownst to them, they had been awoken in an impulse experiment by a clergy of Moander, planting a seed of Moander in their very body, alongside the amulet clearly belonging to the corpse. They were now of nothing but rot and spores – bioluminescent green tinges and one glass eye. They were no cleric, no chosen, not at all blessed. They were instead a druid of spores. A choice they did not get. Largely turned away by the clergy that brought them back, they ended up alongside myconids; and a circle of druids. Seeking something – anything; they accepted tutelage in the druidic order. As pieces of their memory returned, only in parts – they regained their knowledge of the instruments they learnt. The magic that could be sewn through their tunes. After years of mastery built upon each other, the desire to explore pushed itself to the forefront of their mind; they did not care about the life they apparently had lived. With the verbal blessing of now close friends, they departed the village they knew so well. …And ended up in the world above. They were pleasantly underwhelmed by the sun. Following nothing but trails and their wits, they stumbled their way into Baldur’s Gate. A city bustling with life like no other; bright and lively. With nothing else on their agenda, they decided to do what they knew best: perform. It was precisely on accident that they found fame, something about their presence captivating. The truth of their existence almost an aura, intoxicating. Practically everywhere they went was a face familiar, a fan, a secret admirer. It should have been euphoric to have so much gold, so much power; but it… wasn’t. They felt hollow, almost literally. There was nothing that inspired any meaningful feeling. It was wisps of what everyone else understood. They’d tell you that nothing ever caught their eye, or that they were solely fixated on their music. But in truth, the first thing that truly inspired them was the face of a woman. She had neat, black bangs; and hair done in what they presumed was a braid. She was beautiful. Ethereal, almost. Nebenstimme only saw her twice. The first was in the middle of a crowd, the second was in passing. They did not ever truly want anything, ever – but that word could adequately describe how they felt about her.