The expression on Lucien's face was one of sheer amusement. Oh, how many times had he heard that question throughout his travels? His accent was fairly distinctive, after all, and even had been to his New Orleans peers during his adolescence. Rarely was it replicated successfully by Hollywood or other outside media channels; as such, he'd made a point of keeping it mostly intact despite the various regional dialects and influences he'd encountered over the years. It wasn't always easy, but it was a piece of his home, his family, his identity.
Still, somebody always asked.
"Ain' you evah heard Cajun English befo'?" By this point, he'd abandoned the sodden shirt and crouched down with his back to the building, using his own thigh for a rolling surface and moving with a certain practiced ease as he began to assemble a cigarette. "Outta bayou country, de place wit' all de 'gatuhs."
Within a few short moments he'd finished his work and slipped the newly formed stick between his lips, then glanced over at the other man expectantly. "I can borrow dat light fo' secon'?"