100 Words a Day 1243

The row of trees that lined the road on either side up to the castle were old, with thick trunks. Rusted chains emerged from the rough bark, slowly being absorbed by the trees as time progressed.  Fresher loops of chain secured wretched unfortunates all along the way, victims of the wrath of the king of the moor. They were in various states of decay, those that were lucky enough to be dead. The less fortunate slumped against the gnarled, woody flesh of their jailors or hung in crude cages suspended on the larger branches and swinging slowly in the wind.