Nasrin has put it off long enough. After a long stint of dishwashing and generic kitchen duty, the girl made the decision to view the eggs that cleaved her fate, even if it's a temporary bargain. Of course, she asked for directions but after a while Nasrin could follow the swell of heat, an oven that never spends all of its fuel nor needs monitoring. Euskal is, as always, one proverbial step ahead of her, the firelizard coasting on the swollen air until she can join a choir of her brethren on the ledges. They have an uncanny affinity for developing embryos. Weird. Nasrin's slippers calmly take the stairs, a rush neither prudent nor necessary. A dress rife with embroidery matches the tartan head scarf she wears, a vestige of her life as of two days ago. There are probably half a dozen gawkers and she assumes a place at the front for a maximum imprint of the display.

There are some that come to dawdle, to gawk at the half-visible eggs under Zsaviranth's watchful care, to get a taste of summer's coming in the sweat-sauna boil of the Galleries' baking. Then there are those that are assigned to such a locale, to pick up and sweep, to wipe down the greasy imprints of food-laden hands and to make anew and fresh the textures of seatbacks and railings. Ryker is assigned to such labor, the guard-cum-candidate dutifully mopping a roped-off cloister of rocky ledge to the immediate west of Nasrin. He glances her way in reflexive action, the vestiges of his own life similarly difficult to cast aside for the grace of a white knot. The girl receives a sharp inclination of his head, a murmured, "Miss," that is both polite.. and politely stiff-armed.

Zsaviranth is colossal, even from a distance. Nasrin is immensely thankful her encounter with Diem did not result in the queen's presence. She's more or less immobilized, not that surplus movements are a namesake. She sees the eggs, tries counting them but cannot see all of the total she knows there to be. There's nothing for a breeze, she can feel the temperature of her skin rising, even despite spending the latter half of the day serving in the kitchens. A voice brings her back and tethers her back to her senses, Nasrin looking left then right to where a tall man, still yet young, and a candidate, greets her. "Hello, am I in your way?" Blue eyes do not rise to his, their glances fickle as butterfly flight. "I could help, if you'd like." The offer neither enthusiastic nor a labor to ask, a line as neutral as lukewarm water.

"No," Ryker returns in measured cadence with the shlip-shlosh of regulated mop-stroke, his own attention trained more on the floor before him rather than the girl beyond the cordoned area. "I think I've got this under control," is his drier response to the latter offer, murky green-grey gaze glancing up once to appraise her reaction to the eggs below. "First time?" he inquires, evidently feeling it unnecessary to gesture to the eggs or make any clearer the subject of his question.

At Ryker's insistence he's got the matter under his thumb, Nasrin rubs idly at a spindly elbow through the dark blue fabric of her dress. Good. Her feet are killing her as it is though sitting does not offer the immediate relief she thought. "It is. My name's Nasrin," there's confirmation in case she doesn't scream 'new person, may ask for directions'. "I get the impression I'm doing something wrong." She guides a look to Ryker, this time smoky-blue eyes lifted high to reach his face. "Am I supposed to feel something… profound?"

Win-win situation, since Ryker would doubtlessly find issue in something she did within the execution of her mopping assistance. Better for Nasrin's feet and Ryker's blood-pressure this way. "Did they get you too?" he drolly responds, an underlying amusement - perhaps self-ridicule is a more precise expression of what it truly is - taking most, but not all of the sting from his words. "Stryker," he replies to the girl, glancing only once towards the eggs below. It's smoked-jade against smoky-blue when he meets her gaze for one level moment, a subtle derision lining the curve of his mouth. "They're just eggs. I've seen so-called spiritual raptures of being here, but frankly I think it has more to do with gas than with destiny." His voice is beautiful, out-of-place coming from a face all too-bony and hard-lines.

Nasrin tries to separate the majority of her feet from the ground, positioning both feet on the very edge of her heels while sitting with with the posture of a puritan. "I thought I could find some wisdom in accepting. Maybe you will too." She tells Ryker in a polished bazaar accent, not expounding on if she found any or not. She overlaps one hand over the other, the half-moon shape of her fingernails also indicating labor is not her chief line of work. "At this time, I find you're right." She continues to watch the clutch, at least open to epiphany. "Are you local?" Direct, possibly impudent, but she takes to the sound of his voice.

"Perhaps," Ryker replies at a muttered decibel, scything a single look askance to the very proper girl and how she perches. "It seemed… valiant," he chooses the word with especial care, "But perhaps not particularly smart." He's a crass, brash soul, so forgive him for future statements. "By-way of Fort, but I've made my home with the guard here for the last several turns." Sch-schlop, the cadence of his mopping turning slightly as he reaches a corner. Narrower strokes. "Not as local as you, I'd imagine." Here he pauses: "You seem far too reasonable a woman to have accepted Search." Compliment and accusation rolled into one handy turn of phrase.

Nasrin nods with a sense of meaning, some kindred connection with Ryker's leading reply. Reasonable? "That's what you think," words softened by humor in recognition of her shortcomings. Ryker's words wounding and winning as intended. "My thought was it would be a slight to refuse, that I could turn it into an advantage, especially being asked by the gold-mother's rider herself." And then it entailed her brother also risking his social status to accompany her. This plan may yet bomb. "If I thought it could sweeten business relations, what do you hope to accomplish?" Again with the frankness.

Ryker narrows his eyes and stops, then, to listen to the girl's words. Ealasaid would eat an entire live goat right now to see this back-and-forth. A great cascade of conflicting emotion gathers and topples as temporal dominoes using the tableau of his face. "Well," the traditionalist replies, "At least you aren't going into it trying to save the world." Which is the worst - the absolute worst - motivation one could have, so implies his tone. As to what he wishes to accomplish, he laughs: a short, cruel bark of a laugh, almost incredulous at being asked. (Again, perhaps that should read.) "Does survival count?" he cracks sarcastic, and finally the mop moves again.

Ealasaid's consumption of a live goat would be worth pay per view. Nasrin balls one hand, poignantly aware of the scratchy feeling. The dishwater leeched out the oils in her skin and it's no pleasurable side-effect. That'll have to wait. Her eyes fall to her lap where those gritty hands lie in peace, otherwise her movements are glacially planned. "I'm afraid I have little experience with world-saving." But she can tie laces and now knows there the Weyr's main cauldrons are stored. At his question, Nasrin takes a moment to think. "From what I've so far gathered, riders battle survival in a way different than us, but if it should prolong your chances then it's a gamble to take." Never mind her gambling sessions involved buttons for stakes. "I apologize if I'm being presumptuous. My upbringing has limited me in some ways." She has no direct superiors to keep her in check and it's both liberating and alarming.

"Sweetheart," and for once the endearment doesn't crack waspishly sharp out of Ryker's mouth, though that isn't to say it lacks entirely that element of the same tongue-numbing force; "Everyone's upbringings limit them." Look ye now on Lord Holder Ryker… oh, nightmare fodder be named. Speaking on pretension, "In this class, you've possibly been the most polite person I've met yet." Irony thy name. "Good Igen stock, lest I miss my mark." It's halfway a question, but he doesn't ask for her familial name outright. Hell, he's hardly looked at her this whole time, but the proof's in the pudding - he's almost done mopping.

"Steen." Somewhere, Ninien can be proud Nasrin is maintaining veiled decorum, submitting engaging conversation but not too engaging, not enticing boys into broom closets, and getting complimented. However, she's in the den of dragonriders voluntarily, a transgression that might still leave her in the negative digits in Steen popularity polls. "Thank you, Ryker, for the discussion and for not letting me help you. I'm not lazy, just not used to, well, working so much." She rises, and reminded by the soreness of her feet, plans for a soak. "I won't impede your progress any longer. See you." She has a formal smile under the tartan scarf, and a bow, and then a careful trod down the stairs.

The 'Steen' is not verbally echoed, but a particular clearing of previous supposition prepares the way for a brow-furrowed consternation at the naming of said house in conjunction with this latest candidate of Igen. Ryker doesn't comment, has enough tact (ha!) for that, instead giving her a short, militant nod of farewell. "Be safe, Nasrin."