I’m curious what my fellow Capsuleers hold dear, and the stories behind such keepsakes.

I am the least sentimental of all my family, and even I have my parents’ rings set in a Veldspar medallion I keep. My brother wouldn’t care that I’ve got a metal jaw; he’d still try to knock it off my head if he knew I had them, mostly because he’s more sentimental than I am about keeping things as they were.

All I have left of him is the scar he gave me when we were children. It’s proof enough he loves me. We were playing where we shouldn’t have been, and Philippe shoved me into a hard, sharp edge. The wound was deep, and close enough to my spine the doctors were worried there might be permanent damage.

I was in the hospital for several weeks. Philippe didn’t leave my side, once, for anything. My big brother never said he was sorry, but he didn’t have to. He’s the sort who will bring down mountains for the people he loves. That scar reminds me exactly what sort of man my brother is, from his bones on out.


When ships and their crews serve with distinction, I rotate them to a special hangar complex. Generally this means ten or more combat victories. These vessels are used primarily for training and light duty.

It helps a spacer’s performance and morale to know there is a reward for his effort and his pains are temporary. I firmly believe fostering merit is the cornerstone of the Caldari Way. This hangar is my most precious keepsake.


I keep the scars of my original body on all of my clones, so that it reminds me to never again ■■■■ up as badly as I once did.

I also keep a black and gold piece of jewellery, so that it reminds me to never again be the kind of man I once let myself be.

Finally, I have a set of quarters in Korama filled with all sorts of pointless toot and memorabilia, to remind me of both my childhood and my first steps as a bright eyed and bushy tailed capsuleer.


Memories. Things taken away. Things earned. Things taken back.
Carved into flesh in scars, tattoos, prosthetics.

I am a living record of my own life, failures and victories.
As easy to read as an open book, if one but knows the language.

Some read it and weep. Others know hate. In my hubris, I believe some can even love.
It is what it is. Merely a beginning and middle with no end in sight.


I still hold onto the knife that I was assaulted with back in YC120. It was left in my thigh after the attack. I’ve got a few scars from the event as well. I chose to keep them afterwards. One on my face, one on my shoulder, and of course, one on my thigh. At this point, it’s not the only very meaningful knife that I have, but it was the first.

Anyway, the knife is handmade. It’s beautiful, really. It’s got pearl scales on the grip and a water-pattern on the blade. These days, it serves as a reminder of both how vulnerable I can be as well as one of how far I’ve come.

The attack is at least partially responsible for who I am today. It played a part in making me into a stronger, better person. And honestly, at the time, I deserved it.


I’ve got some lucky underwear.

It’s not as impressive, I guess, but also 100% less of an emotional millstone I feel compelled to keep around my neck.


A few.

There are three I tend to keep together: a wrought-iron candelabra, given by a friend long ago (it’s got a pretty good coat of wax drippings by now); a quartz pendant, acquired in a bazaar at Dam Torsad in company with a different old friend, now dead; an obsidian locket, given by a love of … what I guess isn’t all that long ago, a few years, but seems a long time now.

Memories, bittersweet. Those stay on the windowsill at home. I use the candles as a meditation focus.

Then there’s the longknife I carry, which drew the blood sealing my pact with Directrix Phonaga. It’s kind of elaborate: black-stained crystalline carbonide, keen and well-balanced, with an engraved hilt and a few modifications. It’s a reminder of gratitude and duty, of the retainer’s oath I took and the reasons I took it. I normally carry it on my person, tucked through my sash. I never take it with me anywhere I might really risk losing it, though. It’s too important to me.


Just one thing, and she’s already posted in this thread. :wink:


A corpse ftom a fellow Amarrian i killed in WH space a while ago. He was in a scanning fit and i killed him with corp mates without checking who i was killing. The corpse is there to remind me in future.

I guess i got my comeuppance literally yesterday as the same thing happened when i was in an Anathema in null XD

This is the person i killed :frowning:

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A small, intricately carved swirl of ivory. It is all that remains of her.


An anonymous gift I received after graduating: a traditional Achur tea set, made from black porcelain and decorated with hand-painted pink lotus flowers. Until this year, it was the last personal gift I ever received, and it is still my dearest possession.
The set has two bowls. One of those has only been used twice; once when I visited the home of someone who would become my suoolo [friend], and once when my suoolo visited mine.


I have ships I don’t fly often given to me by good friends who have since retired through to planetside.

I have mementos from each of my children’s infancies, and a few personal treasured items I keep under lock and key.

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My strength.

Cold Wind favors the strong. As a Civire, it is important to me. And the State helped to cultivate that through what most of the cluster considers to be abusive and abhorrent conditions. But it does the job and made me the person I am today, for which I am grateful.


The Ferox I commanded fleets from during the invasions, named for my brother, Lauri, who was killed in action in the Urhinichi system. Additionally, the letters from @Malcolm_Khross.


I am bothered by the number of people keeping bones, other body parts, or bloodstained knives.

I shall see you all at the next sermon then, shall I ?


Much like Utari I too keep the scars that I have accumulated through out my lifetime. The most recent addition from the tank incident down on Floseswin.

Otherwise I keep a small wooden medallion carved by my grandfather who lived through the occupation and subsequent Liberation of Matar.


I keep a pair of plastic dice my wife bet me on for a kiss on our first date.


Sure, there are some items that I hold dear. And there are some stories to them. Soz, they got longer, than I planned initially, especially the strange one, but I hope you’re not in a hurry)

Well, the Stripes of Fury is an obvious one. The day we conquered Gebuladi felt glorious indeed. My brother landed a final blow on Supreme Commander Jebi’s battleship which we ritually destroyed afterwards. He evacuated all of the crew of course (at least I hope so). But the victory itself also felt kind of pyrrhic - most of our capsuleer adversaries left the warzone so the resistance we faced assaulting last few systems was miniscule. But then again, it was the same with Minmatar Militia back in 116.12 when Amarr got their medal - big blobs of skilled pilots finally decided they’ve had enough and retired. So we were left there, just a handful of green rookies with glowing eyes led by a few burnt-out veterans in desperate attempts to slow down the enevitable. And there were turncoats among enemy ranks, former Minmatar loyalists with their names highlighted orange by IFF giggling on us in Arnstur local when the final hub went down. That dark feeling of helpless anger and despair lingered in me throughout the next 2 years, fueling my rage and occasionally backfiring on my comrades when I thought they weren’t trying hard enough. So it’s not for the victory, but rather for those harsh times - the defeat and the slow rebuilt leading to a long and weary counter-offensive - that I wear the Stripes with pride. And it is a keepsake for those few indestructible friendships that formed back then.

Off with those bittervet sentiments, there’s a couple more things that I keep around for good memories.

"Odd Vector’s Tristan" - as the name suggests she’s a Tristan class frigate given to me by Odd Vector, the leader of Ghosts of Deep Space alliance. I don’t think that it was him who invented this very popular and effective fitting, which was our main working horse throughout the whole push, but it is him whom I still consider the very image of a competent FC and a true guerilla warfare master. Always calm and cool, no matter the circumstances, and not reluctant to enforce discipline when it’s needed - in the same calm and efficient manner.

"Electrogypsy S-Type" - that’s a funny one, a Slasher class frigate with a full rack of T1 salvagers. A memory of my first days as a capsuleer, when I decided that I’ll pay for my first licence extension with my own isk and went scavenging. At first I was scanning down sole battleships in highsec space and salvaging wrecks of the pirate ships they blow up on their missions. Then I found an easier way without probing - huge fleets of bounty hunters responding to sansha incursions - these I started following around. They seemed kinda annoyed by a stray dog tagging along but didn’t really mind it seemed. Not until one of their own ships got blown up and a ridiculously expensive gun remained intact in their wreck. It remained there for a very brief moment, and my little Slasher, now flagged suspect, didn’t linger on grid much longer. That was the payday, although that particular Slasher did die to a bounty hunter’s throwaway Catalyst, when I tried to see what happens if keep following that fleet. But I used to have a few of them around.

Forgive me, @Valerie_Valate, but bones and knives are following. Again :grin:

A scale model of a Griffin class frigate of old design, with the bridge section on her port side. Carved of a bone of a sea beast native to Arnstur V by the hands of a certain someone who ended up siring two kids with me. The peculiar thing about it is that long before we even met I killed that man’s brother. Twin brother, identical. It was an accident, I didn’t mean to kill him. It took me quite some courage to show up at his funeral and what I carried to his pyre was a model of a Shamrock which I carved of eszurean soapstone. There were images of that ship in some “outlaws and mercs” kind of mag I used to read as a teenager, that was love on first sight when I’ve seen them. Right now I don’t quite remember, why exactly I chose that as an offering, but years later, without knowing of this offering, the twin brother of the one I murdered gave me the same thing - a model of his favorite ship made of materials from his homeworld. That’s quite a long story with the Spirits and their mysterious ways heavily involved. Maybe I’ll tell more of it one day.

A Kri’tak knife from my days in the military. Those were a bit less days than expected, but the knife - I managed to keep. “Bloody Bi↑ch” says the engraving on the handle. And it’s stained with blood, aye. The blood of people responsible for abduction and subsequent murder of my mother. There was a mole in our clan, a traitor rather - one of our own. There was a whole infiltration op going on against us - our clan was formed during The Great Rebellion and was a thorn in amarrian holders’ arses ever since. Not to so much directly involved in the raids in the recent decades, but harboring freedom fighters, supplying them and other shenanigans of sort. So mom got very close to exposing that traitor - by accident, apparently - heard or saw what she wasn’t meant to. So that scum took her hostage and fled aboard her ship. She managed to escape after a while. But they were tracking her. A Dramiel class frigate blapped her already damaged ship in a single volley and zoomed away seconds before my dad, gramps and uncle landed on grid to save her. So at that day she took those bastards’ dirty secret with her in her final journey. But my kin found them eventually, during The Elder War, all in one place luckily enough. The fate brought us together to rend some justice upon those who were plotting against our clan and that one who betrayed his kin. My dad took my knife and carved our clan tats way deeper into the traitor’s skull. Then my uncle did the same to the captain of that Dramiel, a civire bodygaurd of the holder behind this. And then they let me do the same to the holder himself. That grim story is not a memory I find pleasant - revenge is served cold as they say and it doesn’t give peace by itself but it does bring closure, plus there were other details in that event that I’m not that happy about. But I keep that knife as a memo of where I come from and who my enemies are.
Funny thing, I almost lost it once. Willingly threw out of an airlock actually. Shortly after my first license extension. I had a bit of an ideological crisis back then and almost joined State Protectorate. An old friend of mine, someone who often gives me spiritual advice, explained to me that it’s expectable for people to lose their spiritual connection and start questioning their beliefs when they experience death and rebirth via cloning but the herbs and other medications are there to help us. So as I was on my way to see the SPROT recruiter, figure out if I wanna join or not, my nav computer goes a bit funny and lands me out of warp way further off the gate than it should - as if the ship was on autopilot, but even further, more than a hundred km away. And I see a corpse floating around closeby. I grow curious and scoop it. And he turns out to be alive. I grow curious enough to set course for the docking perimeter of the closest station and get out of podgoo to see what’s up myself. It was a man I never met before or ever after, a vherokior, covered in thin ice and dressed in - well, not rags, but something you’d expect a citizen of nowhere to wear - cargo pants, sweater, some kind of poncho - not even a pressure suit or any fancy tech. And there were no wrecks or debris that I’ve noticed where I found him. He seemed perfectly healthy, in a trance of sort, visibly suffering from cold but showing no signs of radiation or decompression traumae. As he was gradually coming to his senses he seemed to try to say something. Then he finally snaps out of it and yells at me angrily: “Doncha ya litter around, dumbass!” - and takes out my knife and literally forces it into my hand. The same knife, with the same engraving, and a few dents I recognize. Stunned, as I am, I only manage to babble something like -“Thanks. Eh. Are you alright? What can I do for you?” -“I’m cold as ■■■■ don’t ya see that?! I need a drink. I’m going to that bar over there. And doncha follow me, fool, go where you’re going to!” And he disembarks and walks away in the direction of nearest bar, grumping curses to himself - “Capsuleer my ass”- and such. I crawl back into my pod and replot the course to the nearest TLF station. As wild as it sounds, I’ve got kinda used to bizzarre events happening to me every now and then since my Voluval and upto my early capsuleer career - I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe :face_with_hand_over_mouth: But this episode was one of those, when I questioned my perception of reality, even though I clearly wasn’t dreaming or tripping at that time.


When I got recruited wormhole staff, I bought a Scrambler Pistol and had it painted so that around the muzzle it’s a wormhole, and the rest of it is a nebula. The handle is a mat black.

It’s a really neat gun.


A silver ring that is parted by a sliver to insinuate the emblem of a somewhat notorious pharmaceutical company. It no longer fits my finger, and invokes thoughts of the life that I once had, the life that I would have had, and the life I have now. It is the relic of a time when my loyalties were chosen for me, and every now and then I feel a hint of regret when I look at it. But I know what I did was plainly a consequence of what I am, and what I am is inevitably defined by this very ring itself. Over the years the ring has meant many different things to me, but as I hold on to it today, I am thankful for having set out on this journey to become a wiser woman that is at peace with her roots and her path.