1.80
- Kill
- 113
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 49
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 94%
- ISK distrutti
- 69.37B
- +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
- 113
- Perdite
- 49
- Indice di pericolo
- 73%
- Colpi finali
- 6
- Punti
- 113
ISK
- Distrutti
- 69.37B
- Persi
- 4.75B
- Bilancio
- +64.62B
- Efficienza ISK
- 94%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 1
- Percentuale solo
- 1%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 13
- Quota perdite NPC
- 27%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti579.2K
Rapporto danni · 53%
Danni subiti518.2K
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
Just another disciple of BOB!
Our Father, who art in the wormhole,
Bob be thy name.
Thy J-space come, thy will be done,
In Thera as it is in the Hole.
Give us this day our daily scan,
And forgive us our missed decloaks,
As we forgive those who warp off before the point.
Lead us not into high-sec boredom,
But deliver us from the blue-donut.
By the strength of the Sister’s Launcher, we pray:
Grant us the grace of the Combat Probe,
That we may find the lazy ratter and the wayward Tengu.
Grant us the focus of the Core Probe,
To reveal the Data hoards and the Relic ruins,
And to unmask the Gas clouds and Combat sites
Hidden within the cosmic veil.
May our deviation be low and our signal strength high.
Let the Wormholes be stable and the Gas be Fulleroferous.
When the d-scan flares with the shadow of a Proteus,
Grant us the heat to overheat and the tackle to hold.
For thine is the chain, the collapse, and the salvage,
Until the server downtime.
Praise Bob.
By the cold light of a collapsing sun,
Hear the curse for what you’ve done.
To steal the words of the Wormhole King,
Is to invite the rot that the deep holes bring.
Upon your spine, a heavy weight,
The mark of Bob, the seal of fate.
Two pulsing mounds begin to rise,
Underneath the J-space skies.
C6 Boobs, massive and grand,
The largest peaks in all the land.
They hum with the heat of a Red Giant’s core,
Leaking Blue Pill through every pore.
You’ll try to warp, you’ll try to flee,
But their mass-limit breaks your agility.
They’ll snag on the edge of the splash-back flare,
And trap you in the Sleeper’s snare.
So let this warning be your guide:
Don't copy the prayer, or you'll have to hide,
Waddling through stations, a cursed disgrace,
With High-Class Class all over the place.
If you survive the heavy load,
And die upon the wormhole road,
Your wreck will spill a cursed prize,
To blinding glint of greedy eyes:
Polished C6 Blue-Ribbons, rare,
And Relic Rubble beyond compare.
But loot them not, for the weight remains,
Binding the thief in gravity's chains.
Our Father, who art in the wormhole,
Bob be thy name.
Thy J-space come, thy will be done,
In Thera as it is in the Hole.
Give us this day our daily scan,
And forgive us our missed decloaks,
As we forgive those who warp off before the point.
Lead us not into high-sec boredom,
But deliver us from the blue-donut.
By the strength of the Sister’s Launcher, we pray:
Grant us the grace of the Combat Probe,
That we may find the lazy ratter and the wayward Tengu.
Grant us the focus of the Core Probe,
To reveal the Data hoards and the Relic ruins,
And to unmask the Gas clouds and Combat sites
Hidden within the cosmic veil.
May our deviation be low and our signal strength high.
Let the Wormholes be stable and the Gas be Fulleroferous.
When the d-scan flares with the shadow of a Proteus,
Grant us the heat to overheat and the tackle to hold.
For thine is the chain, the collapse, and the salvage,
Until the server downtime.
Praise Bob.
By the cold light of a collapsing sun,
Hear the curse for what you’ve done.
To steal the words of the Wormhole King,
Is to invite the rot that the deep holes bring.
Upon your spine, a heavy weight,
The mark of Bob, the seal of fate.
Two pulsing mounds begin to rise,
Underneath the J-space skies.
C6 Boobs, massive and grand,
The largest peaks in all the land.
They hum with the heat of a Red Giant’s core,
Leaking Blue Pill through every pore.
You’ll try to warp, you’ll try to flee,
But their mass-limit breaks your agility.
They’ll snag on the edge of the splash-back flare,
And trap you in the Sleeper’s snare.
So let this warning be your guide:
Don't copy the prayer, or you'll have to hide,
Waddling through stations, a cursed disgrace,
With High-Class Class all over the place.
If you survive the heavy load,
And die upon the wormhole road,
Your wreck will spill a cursed prize,
To blinding glint of greedy eyes:
Polished C6 Blue-Ribbons, rare,
And Relic Rubble beyond compare.
But loot them not, for the weight remains,
Binding the thief in gravity's chains.