- Kill
- 1
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 63
- +4 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 4%
- ISK distrutti
- 329.6M
- +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
- 1
- Perdite
- 63
- Indice di pericolo
- 78%
- Colpi finali
- 0
- Punti
- 0
ISK
- Distrutti
- 329.6M
- Persi
- 8.65B
- Bilancio
- -8.32B
- Efficienza ISK
- 4%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 0
- Percentuale solo
- 0%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 14
- Quota perdite NPC
- 22%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti0
Rapporto danni · 0%
Danni subiti675.2K
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
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.