( ♫ dances )

Having never learned properly, Farrah's ability on the ballroom floor is severely lacking and thus required hours of training by Josephine before she was never remotely allowed near the Orlesian court. She's rather awkwardly and clunks around a bit, as if she is not sure exactly where to put her feet or hands. The importance of the art had been lost to her growing up, seemingly deemed unnecessary in comparison to cutting purse strings and throats alike. Why dance when you can haggle? However, she does attempt to get better if only to appease the nobles now clamoring around her... It's just odd to dance with anyone who isn't one's exact height. 

( ☾ sleeps )

Like the rest of her kin, once she falls asleep, she sleeps heavy and without interruption. One of the few boons of being a dwarf is the lacking ability to dream, preventing the tossing and turning of most nightmarish things that haunt the resting hours of elves, humans, or qunari. Although, getting to bed is a process. Ever vigilant and worrisome, she frets over closing her eyes in unsecure locations for even a second -- being part of the Carta had taught her several things in order to survive in a ruthless environment and most of them readily transferred over after her brush with the Breech.

( ♚ sits )

Farrah has an impossible time sitting still for long periods, often either adjusting her position in a chair that was probably built for humans or just outright refusing to keep proper posture. Leaning forward or lounging back are her preferred statures and no one ever taught her how to sit like a lady. Her back is often bowed, settling her weight heavily upon the wide berth of her hips and shoulders often dropped back — a position of energy and rather immediate movement over comfort. It comes from an itch to almost always remove herself from a situation as quickly as possible. Getting cozy is the first sign that one is willing to stay and converse for longer than necessary. She used to be a woman of ‘business’ as it were, there was no such thing as becoming comfortable. 

And the throne in Skyhold? Too big. Too stiff. Definitely needs more pillows.  

Stories always seemed to weave themselves in different fashions and there was no finer cryer of legends than embellishment.  Yet some lived up to their namesake and others merely a shadow, a husk of what was in fortune gilded favor. Her life had taught her never to make much of heroes, even if some decided to bestow such a title upon her -- a surfacer dwarf, a former member of the Carta and yet she finds minor interest piqued at the Champion of Kirkwall ; what a grandiose tale sung rather humorously by their other resident dwarf.

Her chin finds purchase against the hollow of a scarred palm, tiers of carmine shade pursing. Thick brows knit as the other's voice filters through the air and she finds attention rapt ever slightly. There was nothing left to be desired from this woman before and if anything, she hadn't been nearly as irritating as Varric had perhaps described her as ( gore for glory and horrendous jokes aside ) . However, intrigue over her past bade the dwarven lass to speak, 

                     " Varric tells me you were once part of a smuggling                      organization. You don't seem the type though clearly                      it worked out for you                                          . . .                       How did the Champion of Kirkwall start off like that? "

Moments of breath and reprieve were hard spent, beckon by ill intent that frothed for which an unyielding ferocity.  They were wasted unless taken and so oft missed that nary a warrior could spare a blink to see -- and she intends this time, between the dull murmurs echoing in the halls, to use this existence in full.

Fingers pry uselessly around a garden of green, plucking and priming with little knowledge behind callused paws. Certainly one of the Chantry sisters roaming about would have a fit once they saw their petite savior grubbing about between rows of elfroot and spindleweed. It made her nose itch and she demands the pots to be rid of such flora, despite the soft crooning heard in whispers.

Her rather dramatic vengeance against the fauna only halts upon sight of a familiar and tall human, head adorned with gently curled tresses of wheat-hue, and face splotched evenly with the redness of exhaustion. He is taking a moment of respite as well or so it seems, far more relaxing with fingers drumming against a board brimming with pieces rather than digging in the dirt. To each their own, she supposes, but harmless seems the conversation she forces herself into upon approach.

                 "                                      Commander Cullen ,                 Don't you need a  partner  to play that game ?                 Whatever it's called. Or are you intent to stare                 it into submission in hopes the other pieces may move. "

                    " You realize I'm a dwarf, right?