The crumbling shack was better than nothing, though it had been fairly draughty in the night. A small camp cluttered the best covered corner, the exact opposite corner from the door (or at least where it used to be). Amaury's large denim satchel lay half open on the floor next to a doused camp fire, various cans spilled out of it as well as various cooking utensils. Two large sleeping bags (obviously Luperci made) lay beside each other. Of course, Amaury intended to make his real home over the other side of Nova Scotia (the wooden shack, not this crumbling stone one) a lot comfier than this. With a bed and some chairs. And a more permanent stock of fire wood. Snowy feet kick the cans into the bag absently, Amaury's half hearted attempt at keeping the temporary camp somewhat tidy. But neither of the boys had been any good at this, and it was something their mother had failed to drum into them
The African's musings were interrupted by another's approach and voice. Amaury turned around, blinking at the smaller male with bright blue eyes. 'Uh, yeah' he slurred, 'Yeah, dagga, weed, dope'. Dagga was, naturally, the word he was brought up using, but he wasn't ignorant to the other terms for the stuff. 'You want some?' he asked, kicking in bag on the floor and looking down to the floor.
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