u/CantGetFooledAgainRB

Ultroloth https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D536105232/
Mezzoloth https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D536107449/
Canoloth https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D536105232/
Nycaloth https://www.heroforge.com/load_config%3D536165676/

The Prophet Ierrou
Half-Elf Cleric of War

A Lathanderite, born and raised, the Prophet Ierrou was a Dawnmaster of the church. On her 130th birthday, she abdicated her post to oversee a hospice in the humble village of her birth.
It was a welcome change; the role of dawnmaster never excited her, and she missed the years of personal connection and community of her early years. In truth, some small part of her always believed her own work went further than the divine. There was a harmony in it, where Lathander would carry her so far and she would honor the Morninglord with her diligence.  
When she arrived in Sunwreath, a backwater on the Sword Coast, she went straight to work. The temple, a brilliant golden tower, attracted the passings of trade and wealth; merchants seeking Lathander’s blessing before their approach to Waterdeep. In time, trade princes had even surveyed Sunwreath’s natural harbor for the construction of a port.
But prosperity is honey, and it too attracts flies. 
Viper Kandag, a Zhentarim warlord, approached the village with an ultimatum; the Lathanderite bureaucracy would aid in his operations, or the village would burn. She would not permit herself to shelter festering wound, nor would she see her home occupied by thugs. Her clergy urged her to concede, but in her pride, Dawnmaster Ierrou refused.
The viper coiled. Within days, the Zhentarim encircled Sunwreath. A paltry militia was all that stood between them and the shining temple of Lathander; Ierrou personally oversaw the construction of battlements and palisade walls, but she knew they were outnumbered and outmatched. On the eve of battle, Ierrou retreated to a hidden chamber in the temple, locked herself inside and prayed.
She was certain that when dawn came, under the light of morning, the vultures would be cast out to the hills and the sea.
But intervention never came. She emerged to an empty village, homes burned, the trade-post sacked. Over a century of fervent devotion, yet Lathander had abandoned her after she refused to taint his work.

The Woman Under Empty Grey
In the ashes of Sunwreath, she turned her head to the smoke-filled skies and swore a curse to her god. To his promises of prosperity. To the sickening golden of morning. If he would not act, then he was unfit; they were all unfit. Divine, yet inconstant. Powerful, yet fickle.
The gods were found wanting.
Why then should they rule? Why then should they lord over the mortal? Why must a celestial order exist at all? Was it not their followers who gave them all power? If they, the believers, were the throne itself; then the throne itself must stand and unburden itself.
She stained her golden robes in ash.

The Mortal Prophet
In the hinterlands of the Sword Coast, and the most austere slums of her cities, a new faith grows. A faith of the unfaithful—of the Righteous Profane. They preach in grey robes, march under empty banners into the shrines of gods to shatter the symbols of faith. All are given the chance to forfeit their creed, and those who refuse are put to the sword. 
But the Mortal Prophet refuses to be cruel; temples to the mundane are built wherever the banner flies, charity is given and services are rendered for all who need them. The dejected need not rely on gods, not when they can find generosity in the Grey. 
As the faithless grew, Ierrou sought to unroot the Zhentarim; a mundane grudge, but crucial nonetheless. When the Viper was put to the blade, her crusade had attracted the attention of Mask. Perhaps as a gambit or a cruel trick, she was gifted with the legendary Godsbane; a blade to slay gods, and Mask’s own avatar. 
She wields it freely, reminding the Shadowlord that, in time, he too shall starve.

NSFW for impressive cock.