Blackfeather Woods phoenix; you can't touch her without burning

There is a single bar of sunlight that filters in as the sun rises, and she expects it is the most she will get so long as she resides here.  The towering stalagmites block most of what comes her way; she picks her way through the serrated fangs and settles closer to the entrance until the wind begins to blow, and then returns to the warmer depths of the cave.

There is nothing here to bide her time with. The few bones there are in here she is too afraid to touch.  Something tells her wolf, but something deeper tells her cursed.  There is something vile, dark and wicked at play here that she does not understand and somehow that is more terrifying than the corporeal forms of the Blackfeather wolves.

Speaking of which.  She did not expect to have this many visitors.  The coldness in this man's gaze chilled her to the bone.  It reminded her of (milky cataracts) — no matter.  I am strong.  I am resilient.  I will not be afraid.  Her chin tucks to her throat, hackles raising, the bite to her gunmetal gaze is venomous.  She makes it clear through her body language that she means no trouble; she will just not allow herself to be hurt.