- Kills
- 1
- +0 in the last 90 days
- Losses
- 63
- +4 in the last 90 days
- Efficiency
- ISK Efficiency 4%
- ISK destroyed
- 329.6M
- +0 in the last 90 days
- Activity
- Inactive
- 0 kills/day · last 90 days
Combat Record
Career-long numbers from eve-kill
Combat
- Kills
- 1
- Losses
- 63
- Danger Ratio
- 78%
- Final Blows
- 0
- Points
- 0
ISK
- Destroyed
- 329.6M
- Lost
- 8.65B
- Balance
- -8.32B
- ISK Efficiency
- 4%
Solo
- Solo Kills
- 0
- Solo Ratio
- 0%
- Avg Kills/Day
- —
Other
- NPC Losses
- 14
- NPC Loss Ratio
- 22%
- Activity
- Inactive
Damage Dealt0
Damage Ratio · 0%
Damage Taken675.2K
Activity
What they fly, where they fight, latest kills and losses
Most Valuable
The priciest kills in the window
Matchups
Who they kill, who kills them, what they lose
Last 90d
Killed
Killed By
Hulls LostLosses broken down by hull class.
In-game bio
The dark down there didn’t just sit; it breathed. It was old, heavy, and smelled like damp earth and stale sweat. Three hundred feet below the Pennsylvania dirt, you don’t think about the sun. You think about the timber creaking above your head. You think about the things waiting in the shadows where the headlamp beam fades into nothing. The old-timers from Cornwall called them Tommyknockers. Little bastards, maybe two feet tall, with skin the color of stagnant pond water, dressed in miniature canvas trousers and tiny steel-toed boots. The Germans called them Bergmännlein—mountain ghosts.
The story went that they were the souls of the ancient Jews who crucified Christ, exiled by Rome to dig in the black until the end of days. That’s why Saturday was always dead silent. They wouldn’t touch a pick on the Sabbath, yours or theirs. But the rest of the week? They were there. You’d set your lunch pail down, turn your back for two seconds to spit, and your ham sandwich was gone. Just a tiny, dirty footprint left in the coal dust.
They liked mischief, sure, but they weren't just playing games. They were the ones who made the walls talk... Tock. Tock. Tock. It was a hollow, rhythmic sound. Some guys swore it was a death knell, the sound of something ancient counting down the seconds before a cave-in buried you alive. Others thought those strange little creatures were looking out for us, tapping a warning on the rock right before the mountain decided to swallow a shift whole. Then you had the greedy men who thought the knocking was a roadmap to a rich vein of gold or tin.
By the 1820s, the mine bosses in America realized the Cornishmen had a sixth sense for the deep dark. When the California Gold Rush hit, the owners were practically begging for them, asking every immigrant if they had cousins back home willing to cross the pond. The bosses wanted the labor for the grinder. But the miners? They just wanted someone who knew how to listen to the walls. Because when the earth starts to buckle, and the timbers begin to scream like dying rabbits, you pray to whatever God you have that the tock-tock-tock in the dark is a warning—and not just the little things laughing at what's about to happen to you.
The story went that they were the souls of the ancient Jews who crucified Christ, exiled by Rome to dig in the black until the end of days. That’s why Saturday was always dead silent. They wouldn’t touch a pick on the Sabbath, yours or theirs. But the rest of the week? They were there. You’d set your lunch pail down, turn your back for two seconds to spit, and your ham sandwich was gone. Just a tiny, dirty footprint left in the coal dust.
They liked mischief, sure, but they weren't just playing games. They were the ones who made the walls talk... Tock. Tock. Tock. It was a hollow, rhythmic sound. Some guys swore it was a death knell, the sound of something ancient counting down the seconds before a cave-in buried you alive. Others thought those strange little creatures were looking out for us, tapping a warning on the rock right before the mountain decided to swallow a shift whole. Then you had the greedy men who thought the knocking was a roadmap to a rich vein of gold or tin.
By the 1820s, the mine bosses in America realized the Cornishmen had a sixth sense for the deep dark. When the California Gold Rush hit, the owners were practically begging for them, asking every immigrant if they had cousins back home willing to cross the pond. The bosses wanted the labor for the grinder. But the miners? They just wanted someone who knew how to listen to the walls. Because when the earth starts to buckle, and the timbers begin to scream like dying rabbits, you pray to whatever God you have that the tock-tock-tock in the dark is a warning—and not just the little things laughing at what's about to happen to you.