Elapala Uchonela
- Created on
- …
- Next Birthday
- …
- Last Active
- …
- Security Status
- -1.70
Combat Record
Career-long numbers from eve-kill
Combat
- Kills
- 181
- Losses
- 42
- Efficiency
- 81%
- Danger Ratio
- 69%
ISK
- Destroyed
- 25.41B
- Lost
- 3.26B
- ISK Efficiency
- 89%
- Balance
- +22.15B
Solo
- Solo Kills
- 13
- Solo Ratio
- 7%
- Final Blows
- 87
- Points
- 186
Other
- NPC Losses
- 13
- NPC Loss Ratio
- 31%
- Avg Kills/Day
- —
- Activity
- Medium
Damage
Damage Dealt416.9K
Damage Taken327.1K
Damage Ratio56%
Combat profile
How they fight, with whom and against whom — last 90 days
Activity
What they fly and where they fight
ShipsThis week
No data in this window.
SystemsThis week
No data in this window.
Most Valuable
Matchups
Who they kill, who kills them, what they lose
Top ListsLast 90 days
Hulls Lost
Losses broken down by hull class.
Career
Corporations flown for, most recent first
Tempered AggressionSince Thursday, 4 December 2025109 Kills8 Losses
Fifth Kingdom of NightSince Tuesday, 2 September 202566 Kills7 Losses
State War AcademySince Tuesday, 2 September 20250 Kills0 Losses
Kashag RaidersSince Friday, 7 February 20259 Kills4 Losses
State War AcademySince Friday, 7 February 20250 Kills0 Losses
Muffin Mining MilitiaSince Thursday, 24 October 202490 Kills13 Losses
State War AcademySince Sunday, 29 September 20240 Kills0 Losses
In-game bio
Nobody ever questioned Elapala.
In an alliance full of mercenaries, industrial barons, and half-mad wormhole explorers, Elapala was just another calm voice on Discord — the one who never panicked when a fleet got dropped on, the one who always remembered which gate was bubbled, the one who quietly scooped loot while everyone else argued about killboards.
Elapala flew a Sleipnir like it was an extension of their own body.
“Align sun. Overheat on contact,” Elapala would say in that steady, synthetic baritone. Not warm. Not cold. Perfectly neutral.
A voice scrubbed of identity.
And the thing was — it worked.
The alliance trusted that voice more than most real ones.
Then one night, on a routine roam through low-sec, something strange happened.
Not in space. On Discord.
Fleet had just wiped a pirate gang off a moon in Ouelletta. Discord lit up with the usual chaos — laughter, salt, bragging. Elapala keyed their mic to say something clever and…
Instead of their normal voice, Discord emitted a high-pitched, frantic: “EEEEEEP!”
Silence fell like structure timers on morale.
No one spoke.
Then Elapala tried again.
“chkkkk—sorry—VOICE MOD REBOOTING—”
What came through next was not human.
It was small. Breathy.
Furiously adorable.
“squeak-chk… okay wait… that’s not right… hold on—”
Someone in fleet finally whispered:
“Mate… why do you sound… damp?”
There was a long pause. A soft splashing noise. Then, quietly:
“I can explain.”
Twenty pilots froze mid-ship spin.
“I’m… not actually human.”
The voice modulator given up entirely now. What came through was unmistakable.
A sea otter.
Wet. Chirping. Slightly out of breath.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Elapala sighed — which sounded more like a tiny squeak through whiskers. “I just wanted to fly ships and be normal.”
Somebody finally lost it.
“You’re telling us… the reason you always log in at weird hours…”
“…is because sea otters are nocturnal,” Elapala admitted.
Another pilot asked, very carefully:
“So when you said you were ‘eating during fleet’…”
“Clams.”
The alliance leader cleared his throat.
“…Are you telling me our best FC…”
“Uses a voice modulator and a floating waterproof keyboard,” Elapala said. “Yes.”
In an alliance full of mercenaries, industrial barons, and half-mad wormhole explorers, Elapala was just another calm voice on Discord — the one who never panicked when a fleet got dropped on, the one who always remembered which gate was bubbled, the one who quietly scooped loot while everyone else argued about killboards.
Elapala flew a Sleipnir like it was an extension of their own body.
“Align sun. Overheat on contact,” Elapala would say in that steady, synthetic baritone. Not warm. Not cold. Perfectly neutral.
A voice scrubbed of identity.
And the thing was — it worked.
The alliance trusted that voice more than most real ones.
Then one night, on a routine roam through low-sec, something strange happened.
Not in space. On Discord.
Fleet had just wiped a pirate gang off a moon in Ouelletta. Discord lit up with the usual chaos — laughter, salt, bragging. Elapala keyed their mic to say something clever and…
Instead of their normal voice, Discord emitted a high-pitched, frantic: “EEEEEEP!”
Silence fell like structure timers on morale.
No one spoke.
Then Elapala tried again.
“chkkkk—sorry—VOICE MOD REBOOTING—”
What came through next was not human.
It was small. Breathy.
Furiously adorable.
“squeak-chk… okay wait… that’s not right… hold on—”
Someone in fleet finally whispered:
“Mate… why do you sound… damp?”
There was a long pause. A soft splashing noise. Then, quietly:
“I can explain.”
Twenty pilots froze mid-ship spin.
“I’m… not actually human.”
The voice modulator given up entirely now. What came through was unmistakable.
A sea otter.
Wet. Chirping. Slightly out of breath.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Elapala sighed — which sounded more like a tiny squeak through whiskers. “I just wanted to fly ships and be normal.”
Somebody finally lost it.
“You’re telling us… the reason you always log in at weird hours…”
“…is because sea otters are nocturnal,” Elapala admitted.
Another pilot asked, very carefully:
“So when you said you were ‘eating during fleet’…”
“Clams.”
The alliance leader cleared his throat.
“…Are you telling me our best FC…”
“Uses a voice modulator and a floating waterproof keyboard,” Elapala said. “Yes.”