I own nothing.

The woods of Lindórinand are lush and golden, so small wonder is it that Mithrellas has wandered here. War rages to the north in Beleriand, and she, unattached as she is, her family long gone, seeks only the safety and tranquility of a land untouched by death and destruction. Here, she finds it. After all, Lindórinand, so newly settled, is lush and golden, even if it will be long indeed before mellyrn are planted here.

Mithrellas wanders about the wood aimlessly, tracing her steps so that they fall parallel to the course of a narrow, winding river, humming absently to herself. The party she arrived with have made their camp upstream, and here she finds herself, scouting the countryside to see if there is anywhere suitable to build a house for herself. Mithrellas comes to a waterfall, and frowns when she sees that there are stone steps cut into the rock parallel on the left- and right-hand side of the waterfall, old and slippery and moss-covered.

Does someone already live here? Not one to be daunted by a sign of previous, Mithrellas tucks her brownish-gold, bronze-colored hair behind her ears, takes up her skirt in one hand and begins to make her way down the steep, narrow steps. However much the fall is one that would not likely have been great enough to do her any real harm, Mithrellas can't help but count herself relieved when her feet touch grass again. She looks about her, staring off into the woods at her right, and then, turning her attention back to the base of the waterfall at her left.

And she sees a little house, sitting at the base of the trees.

Startled, Mithrellas stares. It's a house alright, built with stones and deadfall—she can't imagine any Elf but they of the Noldor actually killing trees to use for their structures, and as far as Mithrellas knows, none of the Noldor have ventured this far south. It is neat and well-tended, even pretty. Then, the front door of the house swings open, and Mithrellas's light blue eyes lock with the glass gray ones of the occupant.

It is a nís, tall and slender, taller than Mithrellas. She has long, pale silver hair and is clad in a simple white dress, not dissimilar from Mithrellas's blue one. The nís stops dead when she sees Mithrellas, her full mouth creasing in a frown.

"Good afternoon!" Mithrellas calls out brightly in Nandorin, waving a hand and smiling at the other nís. "A star shines on the hour of our meeting."

The nís stares at her for a moment longer, before brushing a stray strand of silver hair behind her shoulder and nodding. "Well met," she replies, nodding slightly. "It does indeed."

I may as well introduce myself, Mithrellas decides to herself. Perhaps she will relax a bit more if I do. "I am Mithrellas, daughter of Thondir and Mithlin."

Moving into the dappled sunlight, the nís introduces herself as well. "I am Nimrodel," she calls over the roaring of the waterfall, "daughter of Duilion and Gloreth."

"I'm pleased to meet you." Mithrellas spots large rocks jutting out of the water at the base of the waterfall, and starts towards them, intent on getting across the river to speak more closely with the newfound Nimrodel. "I'd not thought to find any more of our people here in Lindórinand yet; I had heard that there were some groups of Sindarin Elves in the woods, but I had no idea that there were other Nandor here."

"Apart from your party, I am the only Nando you'll find here," Nimrodel says stiffly, watching Mithrellas's progress across the rocks intently. "And you certainly won't see me—watch it!"

Mithrellas comes to the final rock before reaching the shore Nimrodel stands on, only to feel it shift and wobble beneath her feet. She is thrown off balance, and reaches out for something to hold on to. Perhaps unfortunately, that something ends up being Nimrodel's shoulders.

For a moment, they both flail about in the air, struggling to stay upright. Alas, that struggle proves fruitless, and one moment later Mithrellas is plunged into the icy water, Nimrodel at her side, spluttering and splashing about in the waters of the river that, Mithrellas realizes, is a bit deeper than she'd thought it was.

Oh well. At least she can swim.

Gasping, Mithrellas treads water and pulls herself onto a rock. Her hair is stuck to her cheeks, her dress clinging to her hips and legs. Nimrodel struggles to clamber up onto another rock, shivering like a pine tree in a thunderstorm. She shoots a searing glare at Mithrellas, who really couldn't care less, honestly. She's experienced worse in her time than being dunked in a river. "Sorry about that," she says, all the same, when she realizes that Nimrodel's glower hasn't abated whatsoever.

Nimrodel glares at her for one moment more before she lets out a gusty sigh, slides off the rock and swims to the side of the shore where she resides. "Oh, come on," she directs to the other Nando, shaking her skirts primly. "We can dry off in my house."

Mithrellas grins.

Nís—woman (plural: nissi)