[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - Another Call for Moderators Edition

**This is an excerpt from a short story I've been working on for a while. It's called The Galloway Road, or On the Gallow-way, and one part in particular was completely picked apart by other writers from /r/Writingprompts, so I owe thanks there. ** 
 
 
 
 The sky grew dark and the air closed in, but the threatened rain did not come. Threading its way through downs and heading further inland, the Gallow-way road moved away from the Mîr where we had begun. Grassy swards and knolls ran beside us, the russet grass bleeding through to muted green. The road itself was wide enough for the four of us to ride together, but on Brett ’ s insistence we stuck to the left hand side of the dusty way. Brown rock Cairns marked the road every fifty feet and they could be seen far, far ahead in the distance. The horizon dipped as we rode, stretching out as we rounded over the lip of a hill. But by the coast, the land was low and it was to my disappointment that the high Tors disappeared from view, leaving me with the sight of waterlogged grass and a never-ending road. 
 
 
 Brett was none the worse for the amount of beer he had consumed before our departure. In fact, he seemed ever observant. He rode at the head of our group, bay pony plodding onwards. 
 
 
 The sun had nearly set when I saw my first gibbet. The grey sky had faded to a threatening blue and the first stars gleamed on the horizon. Despite the earliness of the hour, they now overshadowed the watery lights of the next inn on the road. The wood of the posts caught the starlight, despite its pitch darkness. The iron cage swung, despite the lack of wind. It was cruelly constructed, too short for a normal man to stand up straight. To my horror, little iron spikes emerged from the metal at critical points, jabbing inwards to the person it contained. The man inside it sat huddled, skin grey as paper, arms threaded through the holes in the bars. He was as emaciated as the model skeleton Professor Buffard had kept in the Healing room. Dried blood congealed over cracked skin. His eyes were closed and dried mucus was crusted around the sockets. 
 
 
 
 I thought he was dead at first, but then the grey arms moved and a pink tongue emerged from the bleeding and cracked lips. I have to confess I screamed and the skeleton flinched. 
 
 
 
 `` Cut him down!'' I cried and Brett turned to look at me. `` Brett, get him free, please. I can help him!'' 
 
 
 
 Brett shook his head, turning back to face the road. I pulled the piebald up and extended a hand to the man in the gibbet. He drew back from me. 
 
 
 
 Mal rode past me and pulled on my arm. 
 
 
 
 `` You don ’ t cut those people down,'' he said. `` They ’ re bandits and outlaws who get put up there for a reason. He ’ ll have a tattoo or a brand, you just can ’ t see it in the dark.'' 
 
 
 
 I looked once more at the man strung up in the metal cage, hands folded in an attempt at a plea. As I rode off, the click of talons on metal told me that a raven had landed on the cage. 

