Michael was more than happy to finally touch down on the surface of a planet, any planet. Even one as cold and bitter as this. He respected it's station as a shrine world to his lord and Emperor, but he was willing to set down just about anywhere with an atmosphere after spending so long aboard ships breathing recycled air stained with the odour of oil and lubricants. And to be away from the void. Being connected physically to the rock and soil of a planet was far more comfortable for his mind's eye than the coldness of space. 

His lungs filled with the frigid air, Closing his eyes and letting his mind reach out around him. Sensing for something, anything that might spell initial and sudden misfortune or simple interest. Gripping the haft of his staff tightly, using it as a conduit to further strengthen his search and to defend against anything looking back. He was also counting on it keeping the surrounding sisters and clerics from denouncing him as a mutant and stoning him, or worse. For his staff was topped with a simple bronze '[i][b]I[/b][/i]' of the inquisition. Showing him to be an official sanctioned servant of the throne. And out of reach of the overzealous harpies that often made up the ranks of the sororitas militant.

To him the noise and explosions were little details. More nusences to his concentration than cause for alarm. He once more find reason to be thankful for his service with the Astra militarum. Even the inquisitor jumped and ducked all in one move at the sound. But he was accustomed to walking through battlefields. Where weapons fire whipped around you, only with him weapons fire was often mixed with actual fire, warp fire being thrown at him by sorcerers. It has been some years since he walked an actual battlefield but his discipline seemed to hold all the same. And he wasn't about to show weakness in front of anyone. He was in control of his own mind, body and composure. Regardless of whatever external stimuli was nearby to provoke him. 

He folded his second arm behinds the small of his back and straightened himself upright. If it wasn't for the staff and the steel psyker hood attached to his skull he might have passed as some kind of official or officer arrived to assume an open command posting. What with his greatcoat, boots and gloves which he kept meticulous. 

The only emotion that crossed his face aside from indifference, was while watching an arbites vehicle rip and squeal its way through the streets only a few dozen yards away. He raised and eyebrow and the right hand corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. This planet was going to keep them very busy. This smirk became a frown when he was ushered towards the rhinos. 

Just what he needed, an enclosed metal box filled by woman who think he is an abomination, And he was expected to climb inside. “Vermilion Hells.” He growled and adjusted his greatcoat. Hoping the second bronze '[i][b]I[/b][/i]' he had pinned to it like a brooch or medal would also serve as even further warning and reminder of his protected status. When one was a psyker he had to make that statement as obvious as possible to all around him. 

He didn't loathe the sororitas, nor was he resentful about their existence as an organization. They served a vital role and have done much to further his Majesties holy cause both on and off the battlefield. But their zealotry reminded him often of regimental commissars. People who took to their solemn duty to execute the witch just a little to willingly. And often without the same IFF filter that they would apply to ever other allied combatant on the field. The execution of psykers is necessary and appropriate, under circumstance. But whether the wider Imperium liked it or not his kind had their role to play too. And individually it was often more important than whatever purpose made up their mundane existences.

So he boarded himself in and settled for what was a silent and awkward drive. Just him and some sisters militant and whatever other acolytes joined him in that particular vehicle. A very awkward drive.