These creatures are incredibly annoying... Slipping and sliding just out of reach every time. He knew he'd be happy when this race was removed from the Galaxy with their disgusting world nothing more than a footnote in the history of the Imperium. And their dagger like blades... They were the stinging of bees, but they were adding up, his armour was flagging error here, puncture there but the feeling of this was, sensational. The wounds clearly painful, but it was more of a fuel to his. However as another and another punctured, he was feeling more filled with a sense of resting, as if his gene enhanced physic which in theory could fight for days and days was weakening.. It was how an old man must feel, needing to rest and have a breather. Whatever it was doing this Pholax couldn't tell but he wanted it gone, he was not some decrepit weakling who would falter under some strain, he'd hold and he'd smash that strain apart. Then with some unknown force he flew... One second he was enraged trying to smash some vile xeno and was being stung by it's weapon arm and now he was devoid of anything except bewilderment of what had just happened. He felt like he was awakening from a dream state to see the battle was over, the foes he was fighting down on the floor. "What the... What just happened?!" Pholax shouted as he looked around to see other legionaries getting to their feet. As Pholax looked over his armour he noticed the eight pointed star that had been stabbed into his armour. "It seems they wanted to use me for artwork. Shame their artwork is nothing more than crude drawings of cavemen." Pholax muttered to himself. Reporting to Sidon's side he gave his report, "I'm still alive, wounds seem to be sorting themselves out and the foes I was fighting are all dead. And I need to get another helmet, some work done of these eyes," Pholax picked a piece of glass from his face. "I have no idea what just happened but everything is dead. So that's good right?"