he is hunting- his natural state, that of a predator, stalking among the dim, damp atmosphere... more specifically, however, Jon is hunting a rumored sect of rebels, some of which he has been warned are considered more... dangerous, more powerful, in potential, than the others.
his blaster barrel glistens with rain drops as he brandishes it, a ready threat before him, and he breathes in shallowly, listening for any shift in the woods- but nothing presents itself, almost a supernatural silence fallen across the forest that the death trooper moves through silently.
privately, he thinks he’s glad for his dark armor making him one with the shadows of this place to such extent- while he is certainly not afraid, the tactical advantage is a pleasing presence in his mind, assuring him that he has an almost equal jump on anyone lurking near him, be it in the periodic settlements, or somewhere else.
within a mile, he knows, a cantina contained within a castle is setting- worst comes to worst, he will go there, and inquire with the locals, the travelers, too, though he’s assured nothing, considering it’s a known neutral zone, enforced by yet another strangely... powerful and dangerous entity.
he is, however, unconcerned, if aware, and continues moving.