Minmatar
Sebiestor
2.45
Coolun' Dar
Last Active:
2 days ago
Birthday:
May 24, 2003 (22 years old)
Next Birthday:
May 24, 2026 (200 days remaining)
Combat Metrics
Kills
13,453
Losses
391
Efficiency
97.2%
Danger Ratio
97.2%
ISK Metrics
ISK Killed
13285.67B ISK
ISK Lost
63.78B ISK
ISK Efficiency
99.5%
ISK Balance
13221.89B ISK
Solo Activity
Solo Kills
33
Solo Losses
77
Solo Kill Ratio
0.2%
Solo Efficiency
30.0%
Other Metrics
NPC Losses
14
NPC Loss Ratio
3.6
Avg. Kills/Day
1.6
Activity
Very High
Character Biography
'We shall fight on the TCUs, we shall fight on the ihubs, we shall fight in the battleships and in cruisers, we shall fight in the reinforcement timers; we shall never surrender.' W. Churchill
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. W. Owen.
I've been in more alliances that you've had hot dinners, boy. They've all burned like Rome; did I kill them? Maybe, or I'm just cursed!
Class of 2003.
Farewell little Susmy, farewell little Charlemagne, farewell Barbarossa you will always be loved.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. W. Owen.
I've been in more alliances that you've had hot dinners, boy. They've all burned like Rome; did I kill them? Maybe, or I'm just cursed!
Class of 2003.
Farewell little Susmy, farewell little Charlemagne, farewell Barbarossa you will always be loved.