The carriage was beautiful, a wonderful twirling yet robust display of long scarlet sashes and ornate golden sculptures adorning its roof. Beautiful golden patterns were etched into the frames of the wooden grilles at the sides. At its front and back, the banners of Dale billowed in the cool day wind - a seal of a golden dragon, with a black arrow through its heart. The carriage was just one of a procession of even more carriages and horses that snaked down the green fields of Gondor in a glimmering golden parade. Soldiers of Dale flanked the convoy, bearing smaller yet just as grand versions of their lord's banner. The procession was grand - but none were as so intrinsically valuable as the man inside the carriage. Randal son of Darnal, Prince and firstborn Heir to the Throne of Dale, the Kingdom in the North, sat and mulled over the events of the recent past. They had been waylaid multiple times by orcs in Rhovanion, though Randal suspected that they served gold more than any other dark force. He had lost a bannerman, and his final wailing scream as an orc berserker gutted him with a scimitar still haunted all the golden Host. Besides that, a foul air had been troubling the North. The keelboats that had been travelling down the River Running had been constantly returning emptied of their stock and sinking with orc-shafts. Expeditionary forces to drive back the bandits had been sent out in vain, as the orc-bandits would not meet them in battle, but would instead scatter and entrench themselves within shrubbery and tall grass - something which not even wave after wave of soldiers can root out. Because of this, Dale was increasingly unable to meet its own quotas to the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, something which could prove devastating for the entire North in the long run. But danger came also in the guise of Men - the Haradrim were now a gathering of multiple tribes, which made for multiple opinions of the Kingdom of Dale. Sometimes, Dalish caravans would pass through Haradrim territory completely unscathed. A second caravan in the same territory would never be heard from again. The Easterlings were, however, a more geographically pressing matter. They had slowly broken off trade ties with no further explanation, though it was clear they were somehow in league with the orcs yet again. The Rivers Running and Redwater were just as infested with Easterling swordsmen as orcish archers. With two vital marine trade routes effectively closed off, Dale had no choice but to rely on the elves of Eryn Lasgalen and Gondor - who had troubles of their own to attend to. Such were the affairs that troubled the young prince. He hated the thought, but now he was beginning to realize that all his glamorous Host could not protect him from the seemingly inevitable instability caused by Dale's increasing economic isolation. Taking a sip from a goblet of warm red wine, he let his eyes meander through the yellowish-green meadows that surrounded Minas Tirith.