Moze stands in an alleyway on a dark city block. He was in-between jobs and this was as good a way as any to spend his 'time off'. For such a busy job, it was a surprising luxury. He's just flipping around a blade, observing its features when be he hears something. It sizzles and pops in an all too familiar way. One of the medications he remembers from the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus; he'd never forget that sound. It haunts him, his eyes only growing more uncertain as it approaches. Then he spots them, an unsuspecting person holding a vial of the stuff. He quickly moves from his spot, thinking irrationally as he takes the blunt face of his blade and knocks it out of their hand, letting it break on the ground.

Moze: "No. Don't use such things." His voice is cold, stern, and slightly gruff from lack of use. He speaks quickly as if words were only a formality to teach a lesson. His haunted eyes do more tan enough as they pierce their soul.