- Kill
- 315
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 29
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 89%
- ISK distrutti
- 34.58B
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Attività
- Inattivo
- 0 kill/giorno · ultimi 90 giorni
Scheda di combattimento
Numeri da eve-kill, di tutta la carriera
Combattimento
- Kill
- 315
- Perdite
- 29
- Indice di pericolo
- 97%
- Colpi finali
- 57
- Punti
- 315
ISK
- Distrutti
- 34.58B
- Persi
- 4.36B
- Bilancio
- +30.22B
- Efficienza ISK
- 89%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 14
- Percentuale solo
- 4%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 1
- Quota perdite NPC
- 3%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti2.2M
Rapporto danni · 89%
Danni subiti277.4K
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
Muldreck > THIS IS SERIOUS INTEL
XIRUSPHERE > SRS
Torus Nunn > maruyamoowhatever
He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then the distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.
XIRUSPHERE > SRS
Torus Nunn > maruyamoowhatever
He got up and walked out to the road. The black shape of it running from dark to dark. Then the distant low rumble. Not thunder. You could feel it under your feet. A sound without cognate and so without description. Something imponderable shifting out there in the dark. The earth itself contracting with the cold. It did not come again. What time of year? What age the child? He walked out into the road and stood. The silence. The salitter drying from the earth. The mudstained shapes of flooded cities burned to the waterline. At a crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering. No sound but the wind. What will you say? A living man spoke these lines? He sharpened a quill with his small pen knife to scribe these things in sloe or lampblack? At some reckonable and entabled moment? He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt.