Scheda di combattimento
Numeri da eve-kill, di tutta la carriera
Combattimento
- Kill
- 150
- Perdite
- 122
- Indice di pericolo
- 89%
- Colpi finali
- 100
- Punti
- 150
ISK
- Distrutti
- 40.95B
- Persi
- 18.16B
- Bilancio
- +22.79B
- Efficienza ISK
- 69%
Solo
- Kill in solo
- 43
- Percentuale solo
- 29%
- Kill medie/giorno
- —
Altro
- Perdite contro NPC
- 14
- Quota perdite NPC
- 11%
- Attività
- Inattivo
Attività
Cosa vola la corporazione, dove combatte, le ultime kill e perdite
I più preziosi
Le kill più costose del periodo
Chi incontra
Chi uccide, da chi viene uccisa e cosa perde
Ultimi 90g
Uccisi
Ucciso da
Scafi persiPerdite suddivise per classe di scafo.
Battaglie
Gli scontri nella finestra scelta, dal nostro archivio killmail
Descrizione
Four crabs from the cold firth
alive for a shilling. The largest
reared in the pot, in spite of
the fierce water, but soon
we cracked his limbs with our teeth
and wheedled with spoons and fingers
for the last shreds of flesh
from the crannies of his briny body.
In that brittle maze
I found no features to remind me
of our brains, our livers
or our smooth bellies, yet doubtless
their functions were held by some part
of the paste of his cavities.
Spread, soup and risotto –
only the gills were rejected.
In the days we ate him
I did not forget
his moment on the floor
to amuse the baby, when she
gloated at the slow clash
of his last menace,
nor that shape which made me think
of a soft soldier
fried in the cockpit of a tank.
Angus Calder
alive for a shilling. The largest
reared in the pot, in spite of
the fierce water, but soon
we cracked his limbs with our teeth
and wheedled with spoons and fingers
for the last shreds of flesh
from the crannies of his briny body.
In that brittle maze
I found no features to remind me
of our brains, our livers
or our smooth bellies, yet doubtless
their functions were held by some part
of the paste of his cavities.
Spread, soup and risotto –
only the gills were rejected.
In the days we ate him
I did not forget
his moment on the floor
to amuse the baby, when she
gloated at the slow clash
of his last menace,
nor that shape which made me think
of a soft soldier
fried in the cockpit of a tank.
Angus Calder