Lion Head Mesa do not assess a man who has nothing, and thus falsify your pen

There are steps in the halls of the barracks. Heavy; foreign to her ears.
She had been asleep just before an evening shift when she'd taken notice. Peering from her bedchamber and into the sandstone passage, she sees him. A new arrival to the red sands — there were many, as of late. This one, she guessed, was here to seek the Queen's hand.
But if so, what was he doing here? Why would he bother with the mazoi?
She chuffs in greeting, slithering out from her post and into the open, a bedfur slung over her shoulders.