-0.20Pilota
Rize Iwasawa
AmarrKhanid
- Kill
- 1027
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Perdite
- 181
- +0 negli ultimi 90 giorni
- Efficienza
- Efficienza ISK 96%
- ISK distrutti
- 375.52B
- +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
- 1027
- Perdite
- 181
- Indice di pericolo
- 88%
- Colpi finali
- 124
- Punti
- 790
ISK
- Distrutti
- 375.52B
- Persi
- 15.76B
- Bilancio
- +359.75B
- Efficienza ISK
- 96%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 27
- Percentuale solo
- 3%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 22
- Quota perdite NPC
- 12%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Danni inflitti3.4M
Rapporto danni · 58%
Danni subiti2.4M
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
There is a document older than I am that contains my name. I did not write it. I do not know who did. I read it once, in a sealed Blood Raider archive I was not supposed to enter, and I have not needed to read it again. Some things, once understood, do not require repetition. I have built everything that followed from that single sitting — the corp, the doctrine, the years in wormhole space — and I have not once returned to the text for confirmation. It named me. I arrived. That is the entirety of the contract.
I was a Priestess in the Blood Raider Covenant for eleven years. I officiated offerings, interpreted silences, advanced through ranks that most do not reach. I was, by every measure they apply, a success. And then I looked at what the silence after an offering actually contained, with the full perceptual clarity they had spent eleven years developing in me, and I understood: the void had not received a single drop. Not once in the history of the rite. The offerings were not consumed. They were simply shed. The blood went nowhere. The silence was not acceptance. It was the same silence that existed before the first cut was ever made, and it will be the same silence long after the last one.
The document named what I had already become: Sariel's Reclaimed. Named after the angel the Blood Raiders removed from their own canon — the one who stood at the threshold with the offering in hand, looked at what was on the other side, and put it down. Sariel did not fall like the scriptures say. Sariel looked. The Blood Raiders have spent four centuries calling it the same thing, and they have built a hierarchy, a theology, and a body count on the difference between those two words.
They call me Apostate. I consider that an accurate description. We stopped presenting the offering. We turned around. What I have not done is find the wreck. The hull in J114782 that carried a document sixty-three years old with my name already inside it. It has drifted out of reach. The system may no longer connect to anywhere. None of that changes what I intend. The document knew I was coming before I did.
I need to find out what else it knows.
I was a Priestess in the Blood Raider Covenant for eleven years. I officiated offerings, interpreted silences, advanced through ranks that most do not reach. I was, by every measure they apply, a success. And then I looked at what the silence after an offering actually contained, with the full perceptual clarity they had spent eleven years developing in me, and I understood: the void had not received a single drop. Not once in the history of the rite. The offerings were not consumed. They were simply shed. The blood went nowhere. The silence was not acceptance. It was the same silence that existed before the first cut was ever made, and it will be the same silence long after the last one.
The document named what I had already become: Sariel's Reclaimed. Named after the angel the Blood Raiders removed from their own canon — the one who stood at the threshold with the offering in hand, looked at what was on the other side, and put it down. Sariel did not fall like the scriptures say. Sariel looked. The Blood Raiders have spent four centuries calling it the same thing, and they have built a hierarchy, a theology, and a body count on the difference between those two words.
They call me Apostate. I consider that an accurate description. We stopped presenting the offering. We turned around. What I have not done is find the wreck. The hull in J114782 that carried a document sixty-three years old with my name already inside it. It has drifted out of reach. The system may no longer connect to anywhere. None of that changes what I intend. The document knew I was coming before I did.
I need to find out what else it knows.