Too soon? Maybe, not like it was particularly exhausting to draw this anyways.

“When a man first takes up the blue jacket, he supposes it is the Rebel picket or the crack of a rifle from the brush that shall weigh heaviest upon his nerves, yet it does not take long before he learns that there are whispers carried upon the night wind that will chill his blood far more than any warning cry that the Rebs are advancing may do.

There are tales spoken low around the campfires of a thing seen only after the guns have fallen silent: a shape cloaked and towering, seven or eight feet in height, vast of frame, shagged like some wild beast, and able to take to the air akin to that of a bird.
Its eyes are said to burn the same shade of crimson as freshly spilled blood, cutting through the black of night and even the endless blue of the heavens themselves.

It is most often glimpsed after a hard fought engagement, when the field lies thick with the fallen, some swear it wanders among the dead, prodding the bodies as if to choose, and that now and then it carries one off, for what purpose no man dares to say, though this war, cruel as it is, has surely made such picking all the easier.

By most accounts, the creature avoids encampments and formed bodies of men, seeming to know full well it could not stand against a company in arms, however, in lonely stockades, or during stretches of uneasy calm, it is said to fall upon those poor souls who stray alone from the safety of their fellows.
And when it does strike, there are those who claim no mortal weapon may lay it low, at the very least, the boys of the 6th Cavalry could not, for it is a grim truth that a detachment of six enlisted men were found wiped out under mysterious circumstances while riding through the Minnesota woods, without sound of battle, and without a living soul left to tell the tale.”