"You try watching several millennia of human life and not build up a healthy level of cynicism... the things these people do to each other... and their world... the gifts they squander... ugh... anyway... I'm not a sourpuss, I smiled in 1853." Becky laughs softly, a rather musical sound as she slides off the stairs and reaches into her bag for a pouch of tobacco and papers, rolling as quick as only someone with decades of practice can, lighting it with an ornate lighter that is probably older than the principal. "Maybe my cynicism is my armour, and I'm all vulnerable and desperate for love inside?" she smirks, rolling her stormy grey eyes.