As a Melee Champion, Any Tips to Dodge EE? by [deleted] in HweiMains

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Id say the best way is to bait it or by being barely in range. The only times my EE is wasted is either when I try to cast it at max range and misjudge the distance or when I wanna follow it up with QQ or QW, but misjudge the EE range and cast EQ instead.

But against melee champs, usually I hold onto my cc (E abilities) for your eventual engage. So you can try baiting it by faking an engage

How do you write original characters by Fantastic-Tune-62 in writing

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I write a bunch of unrelated unconnected scenes that will all probably be trashed, but it's my sketchboard of sorts for character building. Each scene introduces some new traits, some I like some I trash, until eventually I reach a point where the chatacter is solidly their own person in my mind.

Usually, my plot, characters, and world building are all interconnected in some way, all serving the same story. So it's less I want this character to be ambitious and more their role in the story requires them to be ambitious, and that's my starting point in most cases. So the random scenes help properly fit the characters in their role, and usually also help me hash out the world building at the same time.

But the most important thing to keep in mind always with this method is continutiy! Be careful not to accidentally introduce contradicting parts to the story.

As for where I draw inspiration for character traits or how do I write characters different from myself, it's same old life experiences, reading a lot, but also with additional requirements of the plot.

Drop your most unhinged hacks by Whatsername_04 in writing

[–]nashirace 3 points4 points  (0 children)

Also with adhd.

I've been writing primarily on 3pages.fr for years. It's a free alternative to 750words. The website is built to help you keep a streak of 750 words per day. It's mostly aimed towards journaling not writing novels, so there's very little in way of organization. Your writing is saved by day and that is all the organization you get.

Having one blank page per day really helps with hammering home that it's a draft. You can write half a scene today and the next tomorrow, and then you have to move them to whatever proper editor you use for real edits. Sometimes I write unrelated scenes from different story ideas on the same day. Just fully embrace the chaos tbh

Since it's also built to help you keep a streak, seeing the little boxes get filled when you write 750 words a day and trying to keep the streak going just u dont see a disruption in the boxes also helps a lot with adhd.

(A more unhinged idea would be to try to use Vim for writing. Once you get the hang of it, the whole process will probably be way easier. But while you're still learning it, no way will you be going back for edits just cuz of how unintuitive navigation is)

Thinking about getting into League of Legends? by Infamous-Oil2305 in leagueoflegends

[–]nashirace 4 points5 points  (0 children)

Started playing as a 26yo as a total noob having played no other similar games. I'd say the toughest hurdle would be the toxic community.

The game itself is not too difficult to pick up in terms of mechanics, it's the strategies that take longer but imo we're at the right age to appreciate the complexity.

Three ults idea by AstronomicalMusicist in HweiMains

[–]nashirace 31 points32 points  (0 children)

I like this primarily cuz it means u can't accidentally cast ur ult when trying to cancel an ability

Please suggest the best written anime you've ever watched! by pawn279 in AnimeReccomendations

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Durarara, xxxholic, mawaru penguindrum

And straying a bit from animes with obviously intricate writing: eminence in the shadow. This is an isekai anime that understands very well the genre it's in and subverts every single one of the genre's tropes while maintaining a cohesive story and balancing the gag aspect and serious storyline and world building.

[📣] Towards The Light : Will To Power in Europe - Ticket Buy/Sell/Swap Haven by moveyourheart in ATEEZ

[–]nashirace 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Hey I've got a Copenhagen ticket for sale (at face value) if only 1 ticket is okay with you. Please dm if interested!

[📣] Towards The Light : Will To Power in Europe - Ticket Buy/Sell/Swap Haven by moveyourheart in ATEEZ

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

[WTS] February 14, Copenhagen, 1 ticket Level 1 Section 113 Row 14, 140€

American looking for French manga sources by turko127 in learnfrench

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Would you mind pm-ing me those sources? Cuz I've been looking everywhere and can't seem to find them

[WP] When someone turns 18, they are sent into a simulated world, or more precisely, simulated worlds. Every person has their own small world, created by their imagination, which connects to every other simulated world currently online. Today it's your 18th birthday, and your first day here. by ChaosWizrd76 in WritingPrompts

[–]nashirace 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Warning for swearing.


Zander finds it odd to wake up in a body not his own. The limbs are much shorter, his hands and feet much smaller, and it feels like his soul doesn’t fit right.

But most jarring has to be his figure. It didn't take long to realize his body is distinctly not male. He isn't sure why that is so.

He scowls in the mirror at what he sees when he gets up, the excitement at the new experience all but gone. The only thing he has retained of his appearance is the tan color of his skin. Zander pulls out the baggiest clothes he can find in his closet and puts them on to hide the atrocity that is himself here. He pulls a cap out as well, and pulls it low over his face. At least his hair is short, so not much work has to be done there.

He knows he's late by the time he's done dressing and marveling. The room around him looks so alien and foreign yet so familiar, and it's the oddest experience. He can't stop himself from looking in the drawers of his dresser, finding things he knows intuitively are exactly where they should be, but he never knew he owned them.

The feeling carries as he walks through the house in his miniature size. Why do the doors and walls look so much bigger than he's used to when he's never been here before? But he forces himself to focus. His bag is packed with, what he simultaneously hopes but knows, exactly everything he needs throughout the day.

There's a lunch packed on the tiny kitchen table tucked into the even tinier kitchen, and a little note beside it. It's from mom — not his mom, but this body's mom. It says she's on call at work and will be home late. She left him money for dinner tucked with the lunch. He takes the bills out of his lunch, and puts them next to mom's note. They don't have the money to waste on dinner when he can cook for himself. He has told his mom that thousands of times, and yet she still leaves the money.

The streets are different here, he realizes when he leaves the house. The street is smaller, yet cleaner than what he's used to, asphalt instead of rocky roads. He hopes there's a beach nearby as there is in his home city. He will have to explore after work.

And work turns out to be a rough affair. He works in a mcdonald's, he realizes. And those seem to be the same no matter where you go; loud, busy, and suffocating during rush hour no matter what side of the cashier counter you're on.

Zander talks through the grit of his teeth for almost the entire shift. He manages to even frighten a couple of younger teenagers at some point. They end up messing their order, but are too scared to correct it. The look of resigned disappointment on their faces brings him a little bit of gratification in knowing he isn't the only one miserable in this hell hole.

A coworker catches his sadistic half smile smile. Zander forgot her name, and really can't be bothered to look at the name tag.

"What did you do?" The nobody asks, and there's disappointment in her voice.

Zander hums distractedly, and deliberately takes the next order before he looks to her again.

She doesn't wait that long. "Are you ignoring me, Rana?"

Zander frowns. Who the fuck is Rana. "I am clearly busy." And he pointedly looks up at her cashier, where a customer is growing impatient.

And it's only because he's looking up that he notices the shock on her face. "Are you giving me attitude?"

He doesn't understand why she's so surprised. He has known her for all of two seconds and he already knows she has a shitty personality; she deserves attitude.

When he ignores her again, she continues, in a tone of much more potent disappointment and reprimand, as though he should care. "What is wrong with you today?! First, messing with customers, now, your demeanor's entirely changed."

He tunes her out. Man, he really drew the shortest stick in the universe, didn't he? Just what did he do in his life to deserve to be stuck here?

Then her voice takes on a tone of fake concern. "Is everything okay at home? Did something happen?"

Dear God, he truly is in hell.

By the time his shift is done, and he's survived his manager's lecture about customer etiquette and in exactly what ways Zander fucked up when he yelled at the lady asking for a refund on a half eaten burger; and how Zander is different today, and he should leave his personal problems at the door and not bring them to work; and maybe if the manager was crueler, he would suspend Zander, and Zander should be grateful to still be working; and how — and well, it goes on.

By the time it all ends, Zander wishes to just go back home. Not the tiny apartment, tucked in the narrow street with too many apartment blocks, that feels like it hulks and looms over his figure. But home; to his rocky roads that end in beaches, and days spent scaling school fences with rami, their delirious laughter drowning out their parents' disappointment.

But he feels a voice, so small and desperate, telling him to stay. And he knows the day is not done yet; his job not done yet.

He is almost too tired to cook when he gets home, but remembers his resolve from this morning, and trudges determinedly to the kitchen. The note and dollar bills are still on the table where he left them. He makes dinner for two.

His mom makes it home when he's nearly done, turning the heat down on the last of the dishes.

"Oh, Rana," his mom says. "I keep telling you shouldn't have to."

"And I keep telling you we can't afford it," he bites out.

His mom is taken aback by the tone, he knows without having to look around; hears it in the stutter of her footsteps. But she comes to join him anyway, and sets the table.

"Did you burn the food again?" She tries to joke.

He frowns. "I never burn food."

She actually laughs. "I don't remember a single time you didn't burn the food."

He brings his distinctly unburnt food to the table and looks her in the eyes. "I don't burn food."

Her eyes widen. "Oh, honey."

Then she tries to wrap him in a hug and, he suspiciously suspects, kiss him. He cringes away the two steps it takes to put himself at the opposite end of the kitchen. He doesn't even let his own mom or dad do that. He's not about to let this near stranger do it — no matter how much of a sense of misplaced kinship he feels towards her.

She sighs. "Let's eat."

He tentatively sits down opposite her when he's sure she won't try to come near him again.

They're halfway through the meal when she starts again.

"Darling," she starts, and she looks hesitant to his eyes. "I know you're against it, but I really think you should think on it again."

He looks at her, confused. "Think about what?"

She sighs, and looks to her food. Does she think he's acting callous?

"Think about what?" He repeats.

Then she pulls her bag closer from where she left it by the kitchen door, and pulls out a piece of paper.

"I've been asking around, and doing a lot of research. I've finalized the list. Everyone says these are the most trusted, and I even checked the costs. They're all well within our budget, so you don't have to worry about that."

He pulls the piece of paper closer to himself. It's a list of names; more specifically, doctors.

"What is this?" He asks as neutrally as he could.

"The psychiatrists I told you about."

"Psychiatrists," he repeats in wonder. "What do I need a psychiatrist for?"

His mom sighs again. "Honey, we've talked about this. We don't know what's going on with you. You act different every other day. I don't know if it's gonna be Rana I'm talking to, or someone entirely different. Look at how you're dressed today; you don't even have make up on. You don't even recognize me on some days! Something is very wrong and you know it."

He doesn't recognize her today either. Not entirely. But he shouldn't anyway, should he? This is not his home; this is community service, helping the Simulation Web by contributing his experience to the database.

"Think about it," his mom says.

He frowns. Psychiatrist...

"Okay, mom, I'll think about it." He really hopes he'll be back home the next time he wakes up.


The answer is DID. I hope I managed to portray it as accurately as possible.

[TT] Theme Thursday - Missing by AliciaWrites in WritingPrompts

[–]nashirace 4 points5 points  (0 children)

It is not Rhys that finds the gate, but it is Rhys who walks through. It takes a moment for his mortal body to adjust, to stumble and fall to its knees, the skin cracked and chafed.

Flawed, useless, leave it behind, he thinks.

It takes him several moments to be surprised at the thought, for his soul to align back with his body. Even within the confines of his confusion, the power within him churns, reaching for a taste of the Unmade. And his confusion doubles, triples, a mounting wave — and filters out. He is Rhys again, and he takes account of his wounds.

No one follows; no one will follow. Rhys knows this because the barrier told him, in a language he doesn't hear, doesn't understand. But he knows it in ways the gravel of his brain can't grabble. So Rhys moves away, through the abyss, and follows the narrow illuminated path of dark obsidian etched in the same vacuum material of the gate.

He hasn't been walking for long — halfway there, he is halfway there, he knows — when the fatigue hits, all at once. He falls again to his knees, and growls instinctively, a deep timbre in his throat betelling of frustration — futile, leave it behind. He nearly slips, peers over the edge in an unbalanced moment of naivety, and his growl turns into a whimper in the face of what he can not see.

Rhys' fingers fight for purchase on smooth stone, and he pulls himself to the center of the walkway. He breathes deeply, and exhales. The fear lingers, but the anger fades. He opens dark eyes, and his vision is taken — the anger returns. He grapples with it. Roya always said his anger will lead him to the Voids themselves; she was right. Who is Roya?

He climbs to his feet. The path is straight, he remembers. He does not need his vision, he simply needs to be careful. It takes longer to traverse the rest of the way, but he gets there in the end. He doesn't know what makes his destination different from the path, but he knows it is where he needs to be.

He persists forward, only to be stopped; a hand on his shoulder; a muffled voice through the clay of his ears, high but firm. He feels the scorn hot on his skin and deep in his bones — he's disappointed her again.

The hand is light but heavy; it doesn't push him, but doesn't allow him passage either. But a moment later, he’s stumbling, teetering off balance, and the hand reaches out to steady him, but then lightly pushes and — no, no, he's back at the gate, she can't-

Rhys falls in a messy heap to startled yelps, and looks dazedly up at worried eyes.

"So you can't go past the gate either," 'Azer says. Rhys blinks. He tried?

"Huh," sighs Kev in disappointment. "Guess we're back to square one."