Zerxus is doing one last circuit of the city as the sun falls. It's not, technically speaking, his direct responsibility - but frankly, he has the time and he'd rather being doing something productive.

He hears Neal a few moments before he sees him, the scraping shuffle that means exhaustion or injury or both. He steps forward with a hand on the sheathed hilt of his blade, just in case.

There's no pursuing attacker or sudden ambush, just one man struggling to remain upright. That could change any second, but Zerxus likes to meet the challenge directly ahead of him first, for better or worse. His hand drifts from the gleaming silver pommel, and he reaches out instead.

"Are you all right?"