Night's reverie (Linda Tinders)

Even with her hair slowly growing at a reasonable length, the uneven strands continue to whip against her face.
"Are you my death?" She asked the persistent sackcloth creature.
The Spirit of the hunt didn't answer. How could it? Not when it had no mouth to speak.
"They said you little critters are marks of death when you visit someone," she mused. "Sir himself was scared witless at the sight of you. I wonder what that makes for me?"
The creature hobbled closer to her, it's bead eyes blinking.
"I'm not scared of you," Linda grinned. "I think people are scarier than you. At least you give people dolls before they die. People? They don't even care what happens... I guess I'm just as bad."
She then lifted the creature and rested it onto her lap, patting its head.