#TUMBLEWEED GIF MCCREE ULT WINDOWS#

But you find yourself back on the sands, no closer to understanding. But you step forward anyway, you step forward to hear those whispered truths, to translate hushed words. There's a hint of dread that seizes every breath in your lungs, a small, inner voice that resists the compulsion to step forward, that begs you not to take that step, not to look in the future, not to face those things that you did and said and have become. It's you and this, here and now, turning to see those faces standing in a crowd, speaking in hushed voices, utilizing a language you can't understand. There is no going back, there are no second chances. There's a wrongness about it, a permanence inherent to the finality of those moments - an inability to make things right or change them. It's every hello and every goodbye you ever said, every right and wrong you ever committed, every face of every person you hurt, or loved, or forgot. There's photographs on the walls, memories frozen and captured in picture frames, glimpses of those moments that inspired the foundation of who you are, that branched away into so many facets of self: of jealousy, and happiness.

#TUMBLEWEED GIF MCCREE ULT WINDOWS#

Nothing here seems to make sense - not the windows opened wide without producing a breeze, not the sheets draped over every reflective surface, not the hands on every clock stopped, pointing to one precise moment in time that you can never seem to see despite how hard you try to focus. Invisible to the World tick tock, tick tocks. You step forward… and find yourself back on the heat of the sands. What is your purpose? What were you born to do? Why are you here? The answer that comes brings back air to your lungs, sensation to your legs. What did you forget? There's pictures of scenes rolling through the fog, fragments of thoughts indecipherable, beyond comprehension, yielding none of their secrets to you. Why are you here? It's a whisper, crisp and clear, small but strong, possessing jarring familiarity. Fingers that reach blindly through suffocating mist touch nothing, feel nothing, grasp at malformed shapes that cling and grow, possessing no real sense of beginning or end or rhyme or reason. There's no up, or down, or left, or right. It robs you of direction – of the ability to do more than simply exist in this vast nothingness that stretches towards eternity, going on and on and on and on and on and on and on. It rips vibrant colors from behind your eyes, replaces bronze, and orange, and pinks, and gold with muted shades of grey. It grants you relief from the sweltering heat of birthing sands, but asks a boon in return: everything. Framing this are small notes of greenery and blooms of various colored hues, too distant to make out the details of each specific flower.

A splash of pristine white indicates an open cover, but the contents within are a mystery and too far to glimpse in the abstract wash of color. Richen wooden brown, in an elongated streak and suspiciously ominous in its otherwise simplistic shape.

From that centre isle, the lack of color or shape draws the eye to a distant blur of color. Darker and more sombre greys speckle the smooth shell, all neatly arranged in rows and divided in the centre. Muted shades of greyish blue cover most of this large egg, painted across its bowed middle like a panoramic curved wall. A thick band of roughened ochre, weathered and beaten by time and elements, encircles his waist, spilling down along his haunches, emphasizing the awkward jut of stifles bowed just enough to give an ungainly hitch to his natural waddle, a singular defect amidst the sculpted splendour overwashed with the rich golden light of high noon. Dark bronze armor, awash with sun-patterned patina, molds itself to hardened muscles from mid-chest to the tip of his long, sturdy tail, joints picked out with the hard steel-grey of gunmetal where hide flexes and creases at each twist and turn. Scarlet shading swirls into the broad sweep of wings that flow outward from his shoulders, translucent coppery sails transfixed between spars formed of Rukbat's fiery heart. Gilding continues, splashing down a sinuous neck, glinting across brass-button hued neckridges and stitching golden lines in looping patterns across a curious swatch of ruddy overtones that drapes asymmetrically across broad shoulders and down one muscled bicep. It skims along hard, lean lines, sparking gold from thick eyeridges and long muzzle before dipping down along the curve of his jawline to be swallowed up in the five-o'clock shadow that rests heavy upon his broad chin and high-boned cheeks. Brilliant sunlight glides over rugged leather, evoking bronzen highlights from deep within the rich chestnut hide.

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