Rengar Build Guide : [PATCH ] RENGAR ONESHOT GUIDE :: League of Legends Strategy Builds
Kawaï Time # Rengar & Nidalee - League of Legends Legend Images,. More information .. More playtime with Gnar | League of Legends. Build Guide Discussion (53) More Gnar Guides. Choose Champion Build: I've played League of Legends since season 2, and have mained top lane and mid lane since season 3. Rengar and gnar league of legends aww, it's funny how cute they look together Rengar and Gnar = Regnar from League of Legends! by BlondynkiTezGraja.
A nasty customer, with a bandanna covering his face. The Man Behind the Man: He's far too badly damaged to know it, but he was resurrected by the jaull as a supernatural attack dog, and most of the entries on his list were placed there by them. You read correctly, Pyke is classified as both an assassin and a catchernot just one or the other. He's a catcher in that once he has an opportune opening, he can really get in your face to lay down the CC for your team, and he's an assassin due to his unique ultimate that allows him to directly secure kills without having to worry about the negative effects of Kill Stealing.
Gnar (League of Legends) - Works | Archive of Our Own
He cannot, however, deal tons of damage without his team due to his lack of constant defense and dueling power, necessitating having to work with at least one teammate at a time. He cannot increase his health through items, it instead converting to damage, enforcing his status as a hit-and-run-heavy Glass Cannon assassin, seemingly to dissuade players from instead playing him as a solo brawler.
It's said that he blames everyone in Bilgewater for what his former crew did. Even the ones who obviously had no part in it.
The jaull has definitely added names to his list and may have also toyed with his memories to get him to take out people who they want gone. Ninja Pirate Zombie Robot: His initial concept was described as a "shark themed pirate-ninja guy that had a cape made of hooks".
He's almost literally the trope name itself, minus the "robot" part. One of Pyke's central themes, and he has a lot of voicelines painting the depths of the ocean as an Eldritch Location that is responsible for what he has become. Is explicitly referred to as "revenant", and he fits all the characteristics.
He shows no signs of rotting or falling apart, he distinctively remembers his past life especially how he died and those who abandoned him and is driven by the single purpose of enacting revenge on his he thinks betrayers, though it is strongly implied that while he has definitely taken out members of his old crew, the jaull whose magic resurrected him are mostly just using him as a means to take out people on the surface.
The Shadow Isles also explicitly have no pull on him, as the nature of his undeath has nothing to do with them. A very shrill one plays right before Death From Below lands. He also gains similar fanfares after a kill streak, with the amount of Stings based on how many he killed. Has a rather dark skin tone, and is one of the most terrifying characters in the game.
Shame If Something Happened: Said in a taunt to Ezreal: Shame if someone stuck a harpoon into it! The recall animation for his Sand Wraith skin has him summon a giant sand throne tossing aside the fancy pharaoh crook and pottery just to do this. Ghostwater Dive temporarily camouflages him, which he can use to set up flanks or quickly trigger his passive to heal himself. An unusually very aggressive one.
He's excellent in catching out enemy champions and securing the kills with his ultimate, but this is meant as setup and payoff for his team, who should ideally do the bulk of the damage that he alone lacks. He makes it clear in a taunt to his allies that he doesn't like them, but he likes his enemies less. Keep it that way. Particularly in his short story, where he doesn't notice when his list and memories are changed. Wooden Ships and Iron Men: In life, Pyke was a hard, wretched man whose life was one of cheap booze, cheaper whores, bad pay for worse work, and whatever satisfaction he may have gained from the hunt had long since given way to a cold, mechanical, ruthless efficiency.
Quinn and Valor, Demacia's Wings Voiced by: Few truly rely on each other. Nimble and acrobatic when required, Quinn takes aim with her crossbow while Valor marks their elusive targets from above, making them a deadly pair on the battlefield.
Quinn is a Unique champion who uses her eagle companion Valor to track and focus her targets; the eagle scouts areas for her, providing vision while taking Quinn on the wing to rapidly move about the map. With her passive, Harrier, Valor periodically swoops down on a nearby enemy, marking them as Vulnerable, which grants vision of the target and causes Quinn's next basic attack against them to deal bonus damage.
With her first ability, Blinding Assault, Quinn sends Valor flying in a target direction, damaging the first enemy he strikes and all surrounding enemies. The primary target also suffers nearsight for a short duration, losing allied vision and greatly reducing their own sight range, and is marked as Vulnerable.
Her second ability, Heightened Senses, passively increases Quinn's attack and movement speed whenever she attacks a Vulnerable target, and can be activated to make Valor reveal a large area around her. With her third ability, Vault, Quinn dashes to a nearby enemy and then jumps back a short distance, damaging, slowing and marking them as Vulnerable. Her ultimate ability, Behind Enemy Lines, causes Valor to pick up Quinn after a brief delay and carry her around the map, granting her a massive movement speed bonus.
This state will last indefinitely, only ending when Quinn reactives the ability, uses a basic attack or activates Aerial Assault or Vault; upon doing this, Quinn will perform a Skystrike, blanketing the surrounding area in arrows that damage all enemies around her.
If she takes damage from an enemy champion or turret, however, the effect will immediately end and no Skystrike will be performed. Of sorts; it's generally believed that she was given the name 'Quinn' just because the community had been complaining that Q was the only letter of the alphabet not yet represented by a champion. The name 'Quinn' had already been suggested several times by members of the community to address this oversight before she was finally revealed.
We wanted something short, pointed, and intelligent-sounding, and Quinn really fit the bill. It's also an androgynous name, we didn't want something overly-feminine. The fact that it starts with "Q" and finishes up our alphabet is a cool side bonus, though. One of her abilities, using Valor to reveal the surrounding area, implies this. Considering the League of Legends staff loves to apply fighting game style mechanics in their game, this is probably intentional.
Her Weapon of Choice is a custom make which Jarvan IV commissioned personally while Quinn herself heavily influenced the design. Best shown in her journal-teaser: King Jarvan the Third's order to capture Talon for the murder of four Demacians, as well as attempting to strike at The King himself, was scribbled with notes pointing out the flaws in logic and why Talon likely wasn't behind said murders.
Unlike other marksmen with magic or hextech augmented weapons, all she has is a custom-made crossbow, highly competent ranger skills, and a Badass eagle helping her out. As Woad Scout Quinn. Uses it in combat? Quinn was promoted into the ranks of the elite in Demacia, and as such got herself the standard fare of royal blue and golden yellow armor.
Even so, the colors are more subdued than Jarvan's or Garen's. Heightened Senses reveals enemies in a decent-sized radius and gives Quinn some Attack Speed and Movement Speed when she attacks a target marked by Valor. He couldn't, and it was as simple as that. Such a magnificent creature was sharpening its claws, and he'd be ready to receive him. To sleep in such a tense situation would be a fool's escape - and a fool's final mistake.
So he stared at the fire. Wasn't much else to do as he waited. Fate loves to tease its victims. Flickering flames often kept him awake during long hunts of days past.
Dancing, tantalising, energetic yet calm. Fire seemed to be a sea of contradictions, yet Rengar was no philosopher. It served its purpose for him; to cook, to heat, to fuel.
He sat unblinking, his elbows clicking, his furious eye stern in determination. He hoped the beast had enjoyed their scuffle as much as he did.
Nothing was more intoxicating than the drawing of blood, pools of crimson staining the featureless greenlands. They had tasted eachother's gore - clawed, scratched, stabbed, bitten, chewed, slammed. And from that day on, they had become inseparable. A rivalry, quite literally, cemented in the shedding of eachother's red. The fire cackled, and his thoughts lingered; a normal night in recent months.
The band of vocal crickets had ceased their incessant mumbles, packing their gear and fleeing to their nests. It was a strange sensation to hear one's own heartbeat - it always made one feel vulnerable, and mortal.
To think that one stray strike on the breast of a man could destroy them. It made his chest thump ever the more furiously. Rengar didn't even notice his fluttering eyelids, the blackened and bagged flesh slipping downwards to shield his irises from the piercing light ahead.
He mumbled feebly, his nose trembling in protest as his body fell limp. Such a weak, feeble body; he'd deserved one of greater might, eternal endurance, and unwavering temperament. In some ways, it was as if what he sought was what he deserved. Only in his most lucid, thrilling dreams would he be able to spend but a moment in the body of the void monster. What paradise would he find in total freedom, traversing the forests and devouring all opposition? What worth did he have? The flames had fallen silent some time ago, giving way to a bubble of silence that enveloped the entirety of the hunter's den.
As forlorn as it was, he paid no heed - his body had surrendered to the teasing allure of sleep, and snarls of reluctance had evolved into snores of serenity. His brawny chest rose and fell to a quarter of the beat of the huntsman's drum, the Pridestalker almost seeming as if he was at total ease to an uninformed observer. It certainly surprised him when he was thrown awake from a slumber he hadn't expected, his eyes and ears haywire in their senses. It took him a moment of enduring an irritating ring in his cranium that he deduced the sound that had caused his discomfort.
A loud, skin-blistering, bone-chilling thump. Birds scattered en masse, retreating for the trees with newfound haste. The flattering of feathers and outstretched wings deafened the hunter, who listened without falter for additional information. Through the screen of frantic carrion was nothing - no battle, no feast, no war. Whatever had happened by the doorsteps of his den, it most certainly did not involve the talent of his rival.
So why was he so anxious? With a palm on his blade; a claw at his side, he rose from his seat with a low creak in his stiff-capped knees. Even if it was nothing at all, there was no harm in staying on your toes - the monster could be stalking the treeline at this very moment for all he knew, watching and waiting for him to let his guard down for but a fraction of a moment.
If he was in the Void Reaver's heels, now would be the prime moment to strike. Finish it in one swift, clean strike. He made for the door, constant vigilance on the expansive horizon. Twisting the handle and nudging it open with a ram of his shoulder, Rengar pointed his blade ahead to ward off the more daring fools that plagued his realm.
His eye followed the glimmering tip of his weapon, scanning the horizon for threats - textbook procedure for hunters such as he. There was nothing amongst the trees, nor was there a bounty in clear sight. It was strange, yet for some reason the sensation of fear and paranoia had diminished. Surely the monster was there, its eyes peeled for his prey's mistakes?
Rengar glared upwards and pierced through the thick canopy to spot the golden fury of the morning sun. It was already dawn - just how long had he been engaged in thought and monologue? Had he really wasted so many hours alone, dreaming of the paradise he sought? Hesitantly he paced forward, a low growl ringing his teeth.
An animalistic snarl often deterred lesser creatures from straying near, and by the gods he didn't want any interruptions from lowly animals with no concept of glory. He breached through the brush; he was in the monster's territory now. A thick, never-ending expanse of trees with not a singular flatland in sight for miles. The beast loved to skip through the oaks and yews, the elegance in its skilled movements only beaten by the dread it provoked in the hearts of men. If he were a shadow in the trees, then the monster was a beam of light - the fastest, strongest, smartest entity that one may ever encounter.
Rengar clawed through a stubborn thicket, sticking to the darkness as a protective shroud. His eye was still plagued by the crust of an early morning, yet he could swear that he had spotted something.
Across the grass in a painful heap lay a creature, neither twitching nor evidently breathing from such a distance. The hunter scowled, his grasp tightening on the hilt of his weapon.
Without a second thought, he emerged from his cover. He was so excited. His eyes were fixed on the slumped form of the creature, his posture straight as he lurked ever so closer. The haze of vision adjusting to the shadow of the undergrowth gradually lessened, the figure becoming larger and larger with every inquisitive step.
He had been almost certain before, but now it was confirmed for sure. It was the Void Reaver. The marvelous beast lay on its front, its claws sprawled out in a thin pool of alien blood as if to catch itself from a terrifying fall. Rengar froze at a distance, taking a knee and feeling the dampness of the dew. Part of him thought that it would be a shameful trap employed by his counterpart, hoping to catch him off guard in the most dishonourable way imaginable.
Yet another part of him knew the Reaver would never do such a thing. With caution evident in his predatorial slouch, he crawled closer and closer to the unconscious creature. Soon, soon, he closed the gap; once more he was mere inches from his prize. He could practically smell its intoxicating scent - the smell of the hunt; the smell of blood - Its lovely, sensual stench.
A hesitant palm found itself stretching outward, hovering over the muscular exoskeleton of the void creature and feeling at its wound. It was almost childish, yet a part of him just wanted to feel the monster's body again - a reminder of the day where they'd first encountered one another. He resisted - barely - and began to decipher what had happened. Glaring upwards to the array of branches, he spotted a loose splint dangling by a thread to its tree trunk. No doubt it had snapped during the creature's hunts, sending him crashing to the floor in a rugged heap.
Rengar had set numerous traps across the treeline before his hasty retreat months before, having hoped to use themto catch the more cocky hunts off guard. Yet they had all been disarmed. The work of the beast, no doubt. Suddenly the Reaver let off a low, painful snarl. Rengar jumped for his weapon within an instant, placing it against the throat of the stirring creature without a moment's thought. It remained in its trance, its beady eyes firmly closed. The hunter scoffed irritably, yet remained in his domineering position.
A sickening thought came to mind. He could end it right here, right now. Mere inches away sat his prize, entirely at his mercy. A slow, brutal slit across its throat was all it would take for the hunt to end. At last he'd have his reward for innumerable days of waiting - the head of his greatest challenge, his for the taking at long last. The Reaver had made its own mistake, and the price it would pay for such a failure was death.
Yet where was the honour in that? How could he kill the defenceless creature right there, in such cowardly circumstances?
Rengar began to pull the blade away, the slick point caressing the monster's neck gently. Where was the glorious chase, the thrilling hunt, the honourable battle that he had dreamed for?
He let his knife drop to the floor with a dull thump, the blade bathing in the damp mildew of the rising sun. He would not let the Reaver die here - not under such unjust circumstances. With a scowl akin to embarrassment, Rengar found himself doing something he thought he'd never have to do - he pulled the monster over, sitting it up against a thick yew trunk and lowering its head to rest against the cool, welcoming wood.
And then he tended to the creature's wounds. The Pridestalker had little experience in the field of medicine, what with his expertise being in the removal of organs for trophies rather than medical practice. However, that didn't mean he lacked a basic grasp of herblore. His mentor had tutored him greatly in the foliage that covered the forest - what could be eaten, what could be used as poison, what could ease pain. Trunkroot - the Hunter's Remedy Trunkroot was an elusive pain-killer, but it was certainly one of the more potent.
Rengar ran his hand across the yew tree's base, tugging at strands of grass and towering mushrooms in hunt of what he sought. The search would've been far more simple if he didn't find himself stealing glances at the unconscious predator by his side.
Out of fear, or out of awe - he just couldn't tell. He scoffed in irritation as he dug deeper, his rotten claws rapidly becoming coated in a thick layer of mud and dirt. Trunkroot also happened to be a rather popular food-stuff for the animals that lurked in the woodland; they often came from miles around simply to try and steal a few chunks of the herb.
Creatures were willing to risk certain death simply to get their mitts on the rare form of vegetation - it was that valuable. At long last Rengar managed to yank some stubborn root free, the thin strands of the herb dangling from between his large digits. He spared a glance at the Reaver once more - he was grimacing, the crisp morning air bringing irritation to his fresh chest wound.
The Pridestalker hastily clenched the root in his fist, coating his palm in a sticky, thick layer of dull greens. Gently he placed his hand against the wound, massaging the creature's chest and shielding the opening with the herbal remedy.
The beast hissed from the sudden stinging sensation on its bloodied torso, yet Rengar persevered. It would persevere; he knew it would. He slowed his rubs, the jagged edges of his claws running against the bony exterior of the monster's torso. To think that his greatest challenge; like he; was such a frail, vulnerable being.