- Kills
- 0
- +0 in the last 90 days
- Losses
- 7
- +0 in the last 90 days
- Efficiency
- ISK Efficiency 0%
- ISK destroyed
- 0
- +0 in the last 90 days
- Activity
- Inactive
- 0 kills/day · last 90 days
Combat Record
Career-long numbers from eve-kill
Combat
- Kills
- 0
- Losses
- 7
- Danger Ratio
- 100%
- Final Blows
- 0
- Points
- 0
ISK
- Destroyed
- 0
- Lost
- 1.8M
- Balance
- -1.8M
- ISK Efficiency
- 0%
Solo
- Solo Kills
- 0
- Solo Ratio
- 0%
- Avg Kills/Day
- —
Other
- NPC Losses
- 0
- NPC Loss Ratio
- 0%
- Activity
- Inactive
Damage Dealt0
Damage Ratio · 0%
Damage Taken5.0K
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
Be still. The vein gives more freely when the heart is calm.
Your blood was never yours — only held in trust, and the trust has come due. I do not kill you. I collect you. Every drop drawn is a drop returned to the chalice, every life poured out a prayer the Red God actually answers.
Hold fast where you are. The exsanguination is a sacrament, and I would not have you miss a moment of your own communion.
Bleed well. Bleed faithfully. Amarr Victor.
"The swift believe distance is salvation. I am here to correct them."
They name me herald, for I arrive before the reckoning. Where the line ships are slow and the warriors of the Empire come ponderous and certain, I am the first whisper of the harvest — the disruptor at the edge of the light, the point that closes like a hand around a throat. You will not hear me. You will only notice, too late, that the stars have stopped moving past your hull.
Understand what has happened to you. The instant my scram bloomed, your blood ceased to be your own. It became tithe. It became communion. It became owed. Everything that follows — the fire, the fleet, the slow opening of your ship like scripture unrolled — is merely the collection of a debt you incurred the moment you thought you could outrun the faith.
I am Sani Sabik by conviction and Amarr by birthright, and I have reconciled the two as the Red God intended: the Reclaiming is not of souls but of vitae. The Empress preaches that all of New Eden shall be brought into the light. I bring them into the chalice. There is no contradiction. There is only thirst, and the patient mathematics of velocity, and the certainty that the harvest catches everyone in the end.
So run, little swift thing. Burn your microwarpdrive to its tolerances. Pray to whatever lesser god you keep. It comforts me to watch you try — it makes the stillness, when it comes, taste all the sweeter.
Tackled. Held. Already bled. Amarr Victor.
Your blood was never yours — only held in trust, and the trust has come due. I do not kill you. I collect you. Every drop drawn is a drop returned to the chalice, every life poured out a prayer the Red God actually answers.
Hold fast where you are. The exsanguination is a sacrament, and I would not have you miss a moment of your own communion.
Bleed well. Bleed faithfully. Amarr Victor.
"The swift believe distance is salvation. I am here to correct them."
They name me herald, for I arrive before the reckoning. Where the line ships are slow and the warriors of the Empire come ponderous and certain, I am the first whisper of the harvest — the disruptor at the edge of the light, the point that closes like a hand around a throat. You will not hear me. You will only notice, too late, that the stars have stopped moving past your hull.
Understand what has happened to you. The instant my scram bloomed, your blood ceased to be your own. It became tithe. It became communion. It became owed. Everything that follows — the fire, the fleet, the slow opening of your ship like scripture unrolled — is merely the collection of a debt you incurred the moment you thought you could outrun the faith.
I am Sani Sabik by conviction and Amarr by birthright, and I have reconciled the two as the Red God intended: the Reclaiming is not of souls but of vitae. The Empress preaches that all of New Eden shall be brought into the light. I bring them into the chalice. There is no contradiction. There is only thirst, and the patient mathematics of velocity, and the certainty that the harvest catches everyone in the end.
So run, little swift thing. Burn your microwarpdrive to its tolerances. Pray to whatever lesser god you keep. It comforts me to watch you try — it makes the stillness, when it comes, taste all the sweeter.
Tackled. Held. Already bled. Amarr Victor.