Lucky never told anyone how they tasted. For one thing, it was odd to say outright, and would garner him some strange looks for sure, but looking at some people was impossible because of their taste.

Aku was the exotic spice of the dried chilis sold by olive skinned merchants on Mercator Island.

(His father had tasted of light ale, refreshing but not very strong)

Dex was like spearmint, fresh and cool and calming.

(His mother had been like overcooked fish, overpowering and sickening)

Rope and Liche were the bitter sweetness of licorice, the kind old men chew while sitting at Watch Me tables and arguing.

(His aunt Talica was like a home cooked meal, filling and bittersweet to remember)

Edith was like warm cider, calming and cinnamon-sweet.

(Tequila had tasted like a ripe pear, sweet and bursting with flavorful juice)

Olivia was like a vintage whiskey, burning at first but warming after a while, with subtle flavors all the way down.

(Cask had tasted like honey candy, sweet and grounding)

Elwin was like lemonade, slightly sour but sweet enough to be refreshing.

(Holliday left a taste like lamp oil smelled, and it had almost made him vomit.)

As he stood there, sword drawn in a staredown against the Seshen mage, Dagon, he forced down his bile as black pepper filled his mouth, a taste like hatred and arrogance.

But he thought back to those tastes, and one held out above the others. That whiskey burn in his throat roared to life as he raised his sword, and lunged forward.