The hag's ragged layers whisper against her hitching sway, cinched leather creaking like strained sinew. Stringy hair mats her grime-flecked scalp, framing a shameless grin that splits wide. Beetles tick in floor cracks, grubs slick the stones, centipedes coil from her hems like writhing fringes. Blackened nails curve sharp on hovering fingers, etched with carrion grit. Her voice hushes from a rotten maw, promising stitched flesh that blisters anew.
Centipede hags are grotesque witches that revel in disease and filth, filling their presence with the scuttling vermin they adore. Their magic thrives in the corruption and warping of bodies, and they often engage in horrifying experimentation in grafting, swapping, and combining body parts to create nightmarish new creatures.
Centipede hags draw more than strength from the filth that covers them; it is the essence of their being. Scrubbing it away dissolves the hag.
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