Whitewater Gorge we have no evidence it wasn't

When was the last time anyone had called out for her? Needed her?
Stupidly, her eyes began to burn and she blamed it on the ridiculous sun, the deafening rush of waters, the pebbles that bit into her pink pads — blamed it on anything other 

“Chit?!” She demanded of her haunt, ruff shivering to life, “Chit dula op—?” before her Trigedasleng faltered, reminded her of another, and reiterating in Common, fangs flashing to hide the quaver in her throat, “What more could you possibly want? To shove me into ze damn waters, too?”
Some quieter part within Aurëwen knew that she was taking her own fury out upon such an undeserving shambler, but the stubborn goat within her refused to let up, refused to apologize, refused to ask for forgiveness.

And though there was an even meeker fragment within her that didn’t want him to go like it seemed all others had done in her life so far, so recently, that Aurëwen promptly hated herself for that bit of longing. “M-milya,” she hissed for herself, turning from the grey warden. “Nányë san milya.”

Perhaps that was why so many thought her dovelike, but, again, she would never know even that.
Voice simmering down to a frail croak, she glared sidelong through brimming  (but stoppered)  tears and forged on ahead. “I am assuming you have a name?”