- Kill
- 0
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 7
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 0%
- ISK distrutti
- 0
- +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
- 0
- Perdite
- 7
- Indice di pericolo
- 100%
- Colpi finali
- 0
- Punti
- 0
ISK
- Distrutti
- 0
- Persi
- 1.8M
- Bilancio
- -1.8M
- Efficienza ISK
- 0%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 0
- Percentuale solo
- 0%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 0
- Quota perdite NPC
- 0%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti0
Rapporto danni · 0%
Danni subiti5.0K
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
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.