Looking to get some concept art for some monsters in the book I'm working on.

6 limbs, 5 eyes, poisonous spines. Think alien hybrid of a dinosaur and an insect. Here's a short excerpt (the only scene with a Cythrual I've got written so far, sorry):

*How many of you, outside the Milwr, have seen a live Cythraul? Looked into their cold, alien eyes, and smelled their fetid carrion stench? Blessedly few these past cycles. Those who have will remember well their first experience; I certainly do.

If you were lucky, it was a lone Skitterling. Maybe you heard the chitter of its carapace as it scuttled toward you; or maybe you didn't notice it until it dropped on you from some dark alcove or shrouded tree, scratching and biting. They're nasty little things, but rarely a danger to an adult Ymeri. If you were very unlucky it was when the screaming horde descended on Maeshalen, a seething mass of horror from the worlds beyond; though if you're still here after that I think maybe your luck wasn't so bad after all. In my case it was a rogue Stalker; still young and relatively small, but then, so was I. It was in the spring of my twelfth year, and up until the encounter it had been a glorious day.

My mother was already ailing, but was still well enough to travel north to Tair Ffydd to consult on some strange ailment the local Iachawr were unable to figure out. She was beginning to feel her frailty then I think, and greatly wanted to keep me near her. So she talked Soren into giving me a leave from my studies to accompany her.

The first few days of the journey she kept me close: never out of sight of the wagons, never more than twenty meters from the road. But as the days wore on without incident she began to let me wander farther afield. After all, those were peaceful times: the borders were quiet and well away from our route, and the last Haid fall was nearly a year before. It seemed safe enough.

This particular day I had wandered, in hindsight of course, much too far afield. I was careful to keep sight of the road, but paid little mind to proximity of the forest or how far ahead of the caravan I'd become. I was too busy being a boy in love with nature. The sun was shining brightly, and the air smelled of that perfect mix of loam and rain that one only gets in the spring. I had found several nicely colored stones, a raven feather, and lovely patch of wild flowers I intended to pick for mother before returning to the wagons. Cynnau chattered on as we walked, pulling random facts from the Archive about the road to Tair Ffydd, or the properties of some plant, or the lizard I was trying to catch.

That lizard saved me in fact. Or nearly killed me. Depends on how you look at it. You see, I had chased him from a pile of rocks not far from the edge of the road all the way up to the edge of the forest. I dove to catch him at the last moment before the trees. And as I dove I heard a slight whistle, followed by the dull schkt of something sharp driving into the dirt behind me. I caught a whiff of rot and suddenly realized the danger I was in.

I threw myself backwards and scrabbled to my feet, running towards the road. As I ran I looked back over my shoulder and caught sight of the terror intent on devouring me. The Cythraul probably wasn't more than a meter and a half tall; but to a child, even a Scion, it seemed to tower with menace. It burst from the brush to give chase, hind-claws churning up great waves of soil, fore-claws stretched forth and grasping. I had seen the illustrations in my school books, and even a pickled Reaver at the Institute in Dwr'Eang, but neither had prepared me to look one in the eyes from barely three meters away.

There's a malice there, and an intelligence that still takes me by surprise sometimes. The outer four eyes, when you can see them around the brow ridges, seem flat and dull, barely more conscious than an insect. But the central eye, with its strangely twisted pupil, gleams with a purpose and intent. This one was fixed on my every move, dedicated to my destruction. The beast flared its mandibles and screeched a cry of hunger and rage. I must have cried out as well, for I heard someone yelling in response from the road. The Stalker screeched again and curled its abdomen up over its back, revealing a single remaining spine to fire at me.

I pumped my legs harder and looked ahead toward safety. I knew from my studies that a Stalker can only fire its spines accurately a little more than a body's length ahead of itself. If I could just maintain my lead until I reached the road I would be alright; but if I didn't… So much as a scratch from a Cythraul spine causes searing pain, nausea, and sometimes convulsions. Getting actually skewered is far worse. Even had I been armed with something besides my belt knife turning to fight was not an option. So I ran for everything I was worth.

Salvation came in the form of a Milwr woman, rushing down the road's embankment with arm cocked, shocklance ready to throw. It sailed in a smooth arc over my head, stabbing into the Stalker's body with a sharp crack as it discharged. She calmly drew her sword, not a Forge-blade, just plain steel, and walked purposefully past me to the thrashing beast; its shrieks now filled with frenzied terror rather than rage. She dispatched the creature with a professionalism I have envied in many a battle since, before turning to me.*