2.20Pilota
Coolun' Dar
MinmatarSebiestor
- Kill
- 14.254
- +308 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 406
- +9 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 100%
- ISK distrutti
- 14.32T
- +249.04B negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Attività
- Molto alta
- 3,4 kill/giorno · ultimi 90 giorni
Scheda di combattimento
Numeri da eve-kill, di tutta la carriera
Combattimento
- Kill
- 14.254
- Perdite
- 406
- Indice di pericolo
- 96%
- Colpi finali
- 741
- Punti
- 12.834
ISK
- Distrutti
- 14.32T
- Persi
- 64.85B
- Bilancio
- +14.26T
- Efficienza ISK
- 100%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 34
- Percentuale solo
- 0%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 15
- Quota perdite NPC
- 4%
- Attività
- Molto alta
Danni inflitti124.6M
Rapporto danni · 96%
Danni subiti5.4M
Attività
Cosa vola, dove combatte, le ultime kill e perdite
I più preziosi
Le kill più costose del periodo
Chi incontra
Chi uccide, da chi viene ucciso e cosa perde
Ultimi 90g
Uccisi
Ucciso da
Scafi persiPerdite suddivise per classe di scafo.
Bio in gioco
'We shall fight on the TCUs, we shall fight on the ihubs, we shall fight in the battleships and in cruisers, we shall fight in the reinforcement timers; we shall never surrender.' W. Churchill
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. W. Owen.
I've been in more alliances that you've had hot dinners, boy. They've all burned like Rome; did I kill them? Maybe, or I'm just cursed!
Class of 2003.
Farewell little Susmy, farewell little Charlemagne, farewell Barbarossa you will always be loved.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. W. Owen.
I've been in more alliances that you've had hot dinners, boy. They've all burned like Rome; did I kill them? Maybe, or I'm just cursed!
Class of 2003.
Farewell little Susmy, farewell little Charlemagne, farewell Barbarossa you will always be loved.