Ash Dogs and Giants

The Virewood loomed like a cathedral of green and shadow, its towering trees blotting out the late summer sun as the train from Gomantia snaked through the ancient forest. Once the pride of Gomatian engineering, the line connecting the capital to the mining town of Awayhla had become a gauntlet of peril. For months now, goblin raids had escalated, the rails turned into battlegrounds, the outlying settlements left smoking and broken.

The Ash Dogs rode in silence, packed into a swaying car somewhere near the engine. Officially, they were the newly formed Cohors Cineris of the Chimera Legion—a platoon of mercenaries, outcasts, and adventurers hastily assembled by Consul Pomellian. But the name Sergeant Emma King had given them had stuck, barked with both derision and pride: the Ash Dogs.

They had been strangers three days ago, brought together by coin and desperation. Their training was brief, the mission vague: protect Awayhla, push back the goblin threat, recover stolen elemental stones. The journey had been uneventful—until the third afternoon.

The attack began with the sharp crack of rifles. Muzzle flashes flickered like fireflies in the dense underbrush, and screams tore through the train cars. Goblins, dozens of them, leapt from the trees or fired from hidden positions. Bullets shattered windows, punched through walls, and struck down soldiers before they could even draw their own weapons.

Sergeant King flung open the door. “Ash Dogs! Get to the roof now!, Clear those goblins off!”

The squad scrambled upward. King was the last to climb. A shot rang out. She cried out, then vanished from view, torn from the ladder by the force of the bullet. Leaderless, the Ash Dogs faced chaos.

Ace, the aasimar illusionist, stepped onto the roof with otherworldly calm. Her silver eyes shimmered. Raising a hand, she whispered a spell. Three goblins charging along the roofline collapsed mid-stride, tumbling like ragdolls into the forest below. Then a bullet struck her shoulder, spinning her sideways.

Ariel, lion-faced and swift, raced across the tops of the cars. Her bow sang. An arrow thudded into a goblin’s throat as she leapt the gap to the next car, landing in a low crouch. She growled in exhilaration, eyes glinting.

Donnie, the human evoker, ducked behind a chimney pipe. “Perhaps joining this expedition was a bad idea,” he muttered. Two riflemen in the trees took aim. Donnie raised a hand. Three glowing darts of energy zipped from his fingers—two slammed into one goblin, dropping him from his perch, the third sending the other tumbling from the canopy.

Phantom, the monk, was a blur. He dodged gunfire, his body moving with supernatural grace. One goblin lunged at him with a curved blade—Phantom disarmed him in a twist, then flipped the creature clean off the train.

Ozzy, the plasmoid cleric, slid onto the roof and immediately went to work. Ryn was bleeding, her thigh pierced by a bullet. Ozzy pressed a glowing hand to her wound. Warm light pulsed, sealing skin and easing pain. Ryn’s eyes opened, and her face twisted with fury. She summoned fire. A bolt of flame lashed from her outstretched hand, slamming into a goblin and engulfing it in a burst of light.

Uurgnok the Metre roared, his greataxe already swinging. He met a goblin mid-charge; steel bit into flesh before the goblin could react. “Now it’s a party!” he bellowed, charging into the fray, beard flying.

Zeby, the kobold artificer, pulled his flamebolt pistol and squeezed the trigger. A fiery bolt slammed into a goblin’s chest, sending it sprawling. “Yes! Yes! Taste the painbow!” he shrieked, firing again and knocking another foe into the underbrush.

Then the forest exploded. Something massive moved among the trees. Branches snapped. Birds scattered. The Yoku—a small forest Kaiju but still a giant—burst onto the tracks, its body camouflaged like gnarled bark and moss. With a bellow that shook the ground, it barreled into the train, tossing cars like toys. The Ash Dogs were thrown like leaves in a gale. They hit the earth hard, scattered among debris and corpses. The Yoku rampaged through the wreck, devouring both goblins and soldiers.

Dazed and bloodied, the survivors struggled upright. Smoke and ash choked the air. The sky was blotted out by thick black clouds, the scent of scorched metal and burning wood saturating the clearing. Ariel limped through shattered glass and tangled luggage to help Ryn to her feet. Phantom emerged from a tangle of severed branches, clutching his ribs. Ace, pale and clutching her bleeding shoulder, leaned on Ozzy.

Ozzy moved swiftly from one to the next, his hands glowing with healing energy as he closed wounds and steadied the staggering. He whispered calming words through the hiss of fire and crackle of dying enchantments, guiding them away from the inferno.

Behind them, the wreck of the train burned—a serpentine line of flame licking through broken carriages and twisted tracks. The screams of the wounded had long faded, swallowed by the forest and the monster that had torn through them.They didn’t look back.

The Ash Dogs limped into the Virewood, each step a battle against exhaustion and pain. Trees loomed above like silent sentinels, their ancient roots curling around moss-covered stones. As twilight settled, the first stars blinked to life in the breaks between branches, and still the Ash Dogs pressed on.

Nearly a kilometre from the wreck, they collapsed in a thicket surrounded by dense ferns and the earthy scent of moss. Weapons close at hand, backs to logs, they fell into uneasy rest. Night deepened. Crickets chirped. Wind whispered through the boughs. And then, the ground trembled.

A rhythmic, distant pounding rolled through the forest—the footfalls of something massive. The Yoku, still prowling. It passed within earshot, snapping saplings underfoot and growling lowly into the dark. The Ash Dogs lay silent, breath held, hearts pounding. But the beast never found them. By dawn, the forest was still again. The Ash Dogs rose slowly, silently, shadows of their former selves. At dawn, they returned to the wreckage. No survivors. Just shattered steel, twisted wood, and the stink of death.

The Virewood was eerily quiet, the mist curling low around the tree trunks like wary spirits. Ash Dogs stepped carefully through the dew-soaked underbrush, their boots sinking into churned earth and mud darkened with blood. The rising sun cast long, pale beams between the branches, illuminating a tableau of devastation.

The train—what was left of it—lay in ruin.

Cars had been flung like toys by the Yoku’s rampage. One carriage had splintered against a tree, its iron chassis twisted and torn open like a gutted beast. Another had been flipped on its roof and crushed beneath the engine, its roof flattened and wheels still spinning uselessly in the air. Steam hissed from shattered pressure valves, the scent of scorched metal thick in the air.

They moved slowly, silently, picking their way through the wreckage. No one spoke. The only sounds were the groan of cooling metal and the low buzz of flies already drawn to the carnage. Ace sifted through the shattered remains of a passenger compartment, her pale features grim. She stepped around a torn velvet seat and spotted a bloodied cloak pinned beneath a broken beam. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Uurgnok lifted a piece of bent iron with a grunt, revealing a crushed leg protruding from the rubble. He let the metal fall back with a quiet curse. “No one made it,” he muttered. “Not from here.”

Ariel, crouching near a tree that had bisected one of the rail cars, found the twisted remnants of a uniform—an officer’s jacket scorched at the seams. There was no body, only the empty shell of authority abandoned by death. She swallowed hard and rose to her feet, scanning for any sign of life. Amongst the wreckage she found a blue cloak, it got cold at night and this might be useful.

Phantom and Ozzy searched together, checking bodies gently, closing eyes where they were found them open. Each gesture was reverent, with a silence heavier than words. Near the shattered rear car, Ozzy paused over a young man’s corpse, his arms still wrapped protectively around a satchel. With effort, the plasmoid uncurled the fingers and pulled free a wand—polished elm tipped with a tiny violet crystal. A spark of arcane residue clung to it like static in the air.

“Looks like an officer’s,” Ozzy murmured, passing it to Ryn, who examined it with a nod.

Zeby, meanwhile, was climbing through the ruins of the command car, his sharp kobold eyes scanning for salvage. He let out a soft, excited chirp and yanked open a half-crushed weapons locker. Inside he found a small sized mithral chain armour, perhaps it had belonged to the halfling officer he had seen during training. It would fit him with a few adjustments the artificer would make.

They found no survivors. Only shattered steel, blood-blackened soil, and gear that whispered of lives recently ended—an enchanted dagger still warm to the touch, a half-written letter folded in a boot, a locket with a child’s drawing tucked inside. They gathered what they could—useful gear, rations, remnants of enchantment—and left the rest.

When they finally turned away, the sun had crested the trees. The wreckage still smoldered behind them, a graveyard of ambition and war now swallowed by the ancient quiet of the forest. The Ash Dogs walked on, heavier than before. They had no orders. But they had a mission.

The rest of the day passed beneath the brooding canopy of the Virewood, its towering trees filtering the sunlight into dappled patches that danced across moss and root. The air was thick with the scent of pine sap and damp earth, and though the roar of the Yoku had long since faded, the memory of its devastation hung over the Ash Dogs like a fog they couldn’t shake.

They walked in solemn quiet, thoughts weighed by the sight of the ruined train and the comrades they had never had the chance to know.

Ariel moved with feline grace at the head of the group, every movement alert and deliberate. Her golden eyes scanned ahead for dangers or signs of life, while her padded feet left scarcely a mark on the forest floor. Occasionally, she would pause—head tilted, nostrils flaring—before silently changing direction to avoid a predator’s den or a tangle of poisonous underbrush.

Behind her, Uurgnok and Zeby foraged through the undergrowth with surprising efficiency. The dwarf tore mushrooms from fallen logs and turned over stones for grubs with practiced hands, while the kobold skittered through tight spaces and emerged with bundles of wild herbs and a rabbit or two snared in his clever little traps. Between them, they found enough to keep the Ash Dogs fed, if not full.

The forest began to glow as evening approached—a golden hush falling over the land. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy in radiant columns, catching dust motes in their beams like fireflies frozen mid-flight. A breeze whispered through the leaves above, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace.

Then the scream came. It split the stillness like a sword—high-pitched, shrill, and full of anguish. A child’s voice—but there was something wrong. The sound was too loud, too resonant, echoing unnaturally through the trees as though the forest itself recoiled from it.

Uurgnok’s head snapped toward the sound. His jaw tightened.
“That ain’t a normal child,” he growled.

Without waiting for the others, he broke into a run, axe strapped across his back. Ariel, Ace, and Phantom followed instantly, instinct driving them forward. The rest trailed behind, already preparing for battle.

Phantom was the first to spot the signs goblin tracks etched into the damp earth, too fresh to ignore. He called out to the others just loud enough they would hear.

Uurgnok’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward and found his boot hanging in midair—inches above a punji pit, a cruel pit lined with jagged, upward-facing spikes slick with dried gore. He let out a slow curse and stepped back, careful now. The scream came again, fainter, but no less desperate. They moved forward with heightened caution, weaving through a tangle of thorns and up a slope thick with tangled roots. As they crested the ridge, the goblin camp came into view.

It lay in a shallow hollow, where firelight flickered between low stone outcroppings and squat, twisted trees. A couple of tents that bore Gomatian colours, were staked unevenly around a central firepit. The stench of unwashed bodies, burnt meat, and spilled ale clung to the clearing like a choking cloud.

Scattered about the camp were crates and barrels, some marked with the sigils of the Gomatian military—stolen from convoys or scavenged from ambushed supply lines. Weapons glinted in the firelight. And at the far edge of the camp, tied to a tree, was the source of the scream.

The forest giant child stood nearly six feet tall, its oversized limbs trembling beneath its weight. Its skin was a pale, bark-toned grey, and its face—wide-eyed and flushed with fear—was streaked with tears and blood. Bruises bloomed across its arms and shoulders, and its chest rose and fell with quick, panicked breaths.

Ace stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she examined the proportions of the creature—the shape of the face, the length of the limbs, the slow development of the jawline.

“No more than three years old,” she whispered. “A toddler.”

The child let out another whimpering cry, and several goblins near the fire howled in mocking imitation. Phantom’s knuckles clenched. Uurgnok’s hand hovered near his axe. Ariel didn’t blink. They had found the enemy. And they had found something far more important to protect. They retreated to the others. They pulled back from the ridge, breathing heavy and eyes still fixed on the goblin camp below. Hidden behind a curtain of bramble and rock, the Ash Dogs gathered in a tight, tense circle beneath the trees. No fire. No noise. Just whispers and flickers of uncertain moonlight above the forest canopy.

Phantom knelt in the dirt, eyes still locked on the stacked crates by the firelight. One in particular caught his attention—a long, narrow box stamped with a faded Gomatian military seal. He had seen similar crates during their rushed training in Gomantia.

“Rifles,” he whispered, tapping the dirt. “Could be a dozen. Maybe more.”

Zeby’s tail twitched, eyes bright with manic energy. “If we set the tents on fire—drop acid, throw a little chaos—they won’t know what hit them. We grab the kid in the confusion.”

Uurgnok grunted. “And what if that crate’s sittin’ next to a powder keg? Light a spark and we’ll all be picking steel from our bones.”

A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the distant crackling of goblin laughter and the soft, exhausted breathing of the giant child in the clearing below.

“I don’t like charging in blind,” murmured Ace, her dark hair catching faint light like a whisper of starlight. “We wait until dark. I can give them something to chase while Ariel moves in.”

The others nodded. The decision was made: they would strike after nightfall. As the rest of the group settled into uneasy rest, Uurgnok volunteered to keep watch. He crouched behind a fallen log, his massive frame still as a boulder, eyes locked on the goblin camp through the narrow veil of trees. Two goblins emerged from a tent dragging a large iron-bellied pot, their green hands gripping the handles as they hauled it toward the firepit. A third followed with a bundle of roots and something that looked distressingly like a skinned raccoon.

They set the pot down with a clank. One of them glanced toward the forest giant child, still bound and barely awake. The goblins started arguing. Loudly.

Uurgnok narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. The guttural snarls and yelps carried strangely in the quiet forest. It was enough to set his teeth on edge. Something was wrong. He reached back and nudged Ozzy awake.

“Get up. I need ears.”

The plasmoid blinked into coherence, his gooey form briefly reshaping before solidifying into his usual cleric guise. He listened, brow furrowing, then winced.

“They’re talking about ingredients,” Ozzy said. “Meat, herbs... They’re arguing about how best to cook the giant kid.”

For a heartbeat, the camp seemed to grow darker, colder.

Ozzy turned toward the others and hissed low: “They’re prepping the cookpot. They’re not going to wait till dawn.”

The Ash Dogs stirred. Sleep and strategy abandoned.

The plan was simple. Or as simple as any plan made in the dark with a forest giant’s life hanging in the balance.

Ace knelt behind a gnarled tree root, her pale fingers sketching glowing runes into the air. As the last sigil hung in place, she whispered the command, and four spheres of ethereal light blinked into existence—cool, flickering orbs like pale fireflies.

They drifted upward, then darted low through the trees, weaving between tents on the far edge of the goblin camp. As they moved, goblins froze. One pointed. Another shouted. Confusion rippled through the camp like a dropped stone in water.

A pair of goblins near the wagon turned their heads toward the lights, muttering something in their sharp, nasal tongue. One started to walk toward the distraction. The other barked at him to stay put, jabbing a finger toward the rifle crate.

Now.

Ariel moved like shadow given form. Cloaked in black, she pressed close to the earth, darting between underbrush and overturned crates. The soft pad of her footfalls was lost beneath the goblins’ rising voices. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she slid behind the wagon.

The two goblins at the crate were still arguing—about the lights, about whose shift it was, about anything and everything that had nothing to do with the tabaxi behind them.

With a slow, silent breath, Ariel reached out and took hold of the crate.

It was heavier than she’d expected—solid wood reinforced with iron bands. Her muscles tensed as she began to lift, inch by inch, her claws barely scraping the surface. Her breath caught in her throat as the crate groaned softly, the wood creaking in protest.

One of the goblins twitched.

He turned.

Time slowed.

From the treeline, the Ash Dogs watched, every one of them frozen in place.

Uurgnok’s hand gripped the haft of his axe so tightly his knuckles blanched.

Ace held her breath.

Even Zeby was silent.

The goblin squinted. A heartbeat. Then another.

Ariel didn't dare stop. She pivoted, shifting the weight, tensing every muscle to keep from collapsing under the strain. Her body screamed for speed, but she forced herself to move with the steady grace of a predator. No noise. No rush.

The goblin opened his mouth—then yelped and turned, distracted by one of the Dancing Lights blinking out near the cookpot.

Ariel disappeared into the brush.

The crate followed, barely missing a low root as she staggered downhill, out of view.

A full ten seconds passed before anyone breathed again.

When she reappeared behind the cover of the trees, panting and flushed, the tension broke like glass. She dropped the crate and fell back on her haunches, her tail flicking with silent adrenaline.

Uurgnok pried it open.

Inside—twelve Gomatian rifles, polished and loaded into foam-lined slots.

No powder. No cartridges.

No ammunition.

Ariel wiped sweat from her brow. “Worth it?”

Zeby clicked his tongue. “If they were loaded, sure. Now? They’re sticks with triggers.”

The Ash Dogs glanced at each other. The plan was about to change again.

Certainly! Here's your rewritten scene as a fluid, immersive narrative in the same fantasy novel style as the rest of the chapter, building tension and keeping the action grounded in character and atmosphere:

The plan was set.

Ariel would slip in through the shadows and free the forest giant child. The rest of the Ash Dogs would strike from two angles—quick, brutal, and coordinated. If they were fast enough, they could save the child before the goblins could respond.

The air was heavy, thick with the musk of pine needles and smoke. The goblin camp flickered in the firelight below, unaware of the death encircling it.

Zeby was the first to break the silence.

He leveled his arcane pistol and fired with a snarl. A jet of hissing acid streaked through the air and exploded in a sizzling spray across three goblins seated near the cookpot. Their howls pierced the night as flesh melted and armor bubbled, collapsing in twitching heaps.

Before the screams had faded, Phantom was moving—a blur of fists and shadow. He struck like a viper, his first blow crashing into the skull of a stunned goblin. But a second, tougher warrior rose to meet him. Their blades clashed in a spray of sparks, and Phantom hissed as steel cut into his shoulder.

Ozzy lifted his hand from behind a boulder. A column of white fire descended from the heavens, engulfing a goblin mid-charge. It collapsed, twitching, the smell of scorched leather and flesh rising in its wake.

From the other flank, Uurgnok charged like a boulder down a slope. His greataxe flashed in the firelight, and with a roar, he cleaved straight through a goblin, then kept moving. Another fell under his backswing, blood spraying across the tent flaps.

But the goblins were many—and they were angry.

They surged like rats from their holes, snarling and snapping. Arrows hissed through the trees. One struck Zeby in the side, sending him stumbling back behind a crate with a cry. Another blade caught **

The new plan was desperate—but it was the only one left.

Ariel would slip behind the camp and free the child. The rest of the Ash Dogs would attack from two flanks, fast and hard, creating just enough chaos to get the forest giant to safety.

They moved into position under the cloak of night. No war cries. No fanfare. Just the sound of breath held and weapons drawn.

Zeby struck first. A sharp hiss cut the silence as the kobold leveled his arcane pistol and loosed a vial of sizzling acid into the firelit clearing. It burst against a cluster of goblins, spraying across armor, cloth, and skin. Screams erupted as flesh sizzled and blistered, the smell of burnt meat choking the air.

In that instant, the Ash Dogs charged. Phantom was a blur—his fists flashing in the firelight as he surged into the fray. He struck a goblin across the jaw with a brutal spin, but was met almost immediately by a veteran warrior, larger and better-armed than the rest. Steel clashed with skin. Blood splattered the earth.

From the treeline, Ozzy raised his hand and called down Sacred Flame. Radiant fire scorched the ground beneath a goblin’s feet, searing through armor. Nearby, Uurgnok hit like a battering ram, his greataxe cleaving into goblins with terrifying force. Each swing left blood and shattered bone in its wake. But the goblins, surprised though they were, were many—and more capable than they looked.

A scimitar struck Zeby, slamming him to the ground. Phantom, distracted by his duel, took a spear to the side, staggering back with a grunt. The tide began to shift.

Then Ryn stepped forward, her silver hair aglow with magical energy. With a snap of her fingers, a searing Fire Bolt streaked through the night and ignited a goblin mid-charge, the creature falling in flames with a shriek.

Ace whispered words from another world, her eyes unfocused as she guided the threads of sleep. Four goblins faltered, stumbled—and collapsed mid-stride, snoring gently even as battle raged around them.

Donnie, precise and cold in the chaos, extended his hand and launched three glowing missiles into the chest of a goblin archer. The creature slammed backward into a crate and moved no more.

At the edge of the camp, Ariel reached the child.

The forest giant’s eyes were wide with panic, its cheeks streaked with tears. Its skin was pale and slick with sweat, its limbs trembling. Ariel slid her dagger under the rope and sliced cleanly through. The moment the last binding snapped, the child lunged forward and wrapped her in a crushing hug, lifting her completely off the ground. Her ribs protested. She whispered soft, soothing words, claws gently stroking the child’s bark-like hair. “It’s okay... I’ve got you now. We’re going home.” She guided the child toward the trees, away from the fighting.

Back in the camp, Zeby, furious and limping, leveled his pistol and unleashed a blast of flame at a nearby goblin, who shrieked and dropped, writhing. Phantom, blood staining his tunic, tried to rise for one final strike. He lunged toward his opponent—but his footing slipped. The goblin’s blade lashed out in a clean arc across his abdomen. Phantom collapsed, his body hitting the dirt with a hollow thud. He didn’t move.

And then came the sound. Crashing. Cracking. Trees snapping like twigs. The battlefield froze. Every head turned toward the forest's edge. Another Yoku? No. Perhaps something worse, something bigger. The crashing grew louder, closer—branches breaking, roots torn from the earth. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

The Ash Dogs froze. Weapons were raised. Spells gripped tight. Every breath held. Another Yoku? From the eastern ridge, a massive form burst through the tree line, half-collapsing with each stride. A giantess, towering and wounded, staggered into the clearing. Her grey-barked skin was split and bleeding in several places. A makeshift spear jutted from her thigh, and deep claw-like gouges marred her arms and flanks.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. But her eyes—those wide, desperate eyes—searched wildly until they fell upon the small figure near the edge of the camp. The toddler, still clutching Ariel’s hand, had buried its face into her shoulder in fear. Ariel turned, heart pounding, and gently lifted the child’s chin.

“Look,” she whispered, pointing toward the trees. “Is that your momma?”

The child blinked, tears clinging to its cheeks. It could not understand her word but its gaze followed Ariel’s finger. And then it saw.

A scream broke from its throat—not of fear, but relief. The words were foreign but they understood the child had just screamed “Momma!” The child cried, its voice echoing through the trees. It wrenched free from Ariel and ran, legs pumping, arms outstretched.

The goblins, already faltering, broke completely. The sight of the enraged, wounded matron was too much. They shrieked in panic and fled in all directions, trampling their own fallen and leaping over crates as they vanished into the woods. The giantess dropped to her knees with a cry as her child barreled into her arms. She caught the toddler and pulled it close, her body curling protectively around it. Her massive wooden club slipped from her hand and thudded into the dirt. She looked up. Her eyes fixed on the Ash Dogs. Blood trickled from her mouth.

She turned slightly, still clutching the child, and tried to raise her club again—not in rage, but in defense. Between her and the strangers stood only instinct and the will to protect. She took a step back, then another, and her heel caught on a fallen log. The giantess toppled backward with a thunderous crash, earth and leaves spraying skyward as her weight hit the ground. She didn’t rise. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, wheezing gasps. Her wounds were too deep, too many. She was dying.

Ozzy knelt beside her, whispering prayers. Golden light spilled from his hands. Her wounds began to close. His healing magic found Phantom, who was a moment from his own death, and Zeby who was bleeding badly. The mother blinked, dazed but living. The Ash Dogs had not only survived. They had saved a family.