She opened her hands, and two figures flanked her.  Again, the blending of costume and flesh.  The blurring of identity.  Both were women, but one had perhaps been mutilated in death, or she had been a case fifty-three.  She was four-legged, her two arms different lengths.

They worked together to fashion Glaistig Uaine’s costume, discorporating the modified prison uniform she’d fashioned into a shroud and reforming it into a proper cloak and robe, with a texture that scintillated green and black, as though it were made up of thousands of scales the size of grains of sand.

Wildbow, Worm, 27.4