Whispers from the Stratios By the wrecks of lowsec moons
In shadows deep where wormholes sigh, A ghost in white will drift on by. No trumpet sounds, no engines roar— Just SortedSword, the ship of war.
A Stratios cloaked in silent grace, With traps and drones to haunt the chase. A scanning pulse, a narrowing gate, Then blasters bloom your sudden fate.
Through relic fields and data dust, He moves with patience, cold and just. A lone explorer, or so you dream, Until your hull begins to scream.
"Blue?" you ask, in local chat— But Sorted answers more than that. With void and fire, the truth is told: In New Eden, trust is bought and sold.
No killboard bloat, no prideful boast, Just wrecks that haunt the systems most. And if you scan a Stratios near— Be warned: the sword is drawing near.