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“That’s how you do it, baby!” Taako preens at the applause – it’s not a massive crowd, but it’s not bad either, and they’re eating his shit up – and hands off the tray of samples to someone in the first row with a wink. He doesn’t wait for it to work around, gotta keep the show moving, so he throws himself into the next dish.
His routine is so practiced by now that he can concentrate entirely on the audience, settling back down after mobbing for a taste of Taako, do some crowd work. “What I love about this dish is–”
Someone in the crowd coughs, loudly, and falls their knees. Taako’s concerned, but a little more irritated at the break in his groove. “Can somebody Heimlich that guy? Remember to chew your food, folks,” he quips, as people turn to help.
It’s the second one to go down, a sullen teen who’d been lurking in the back, that does it. Taako’s hands falter, drop the skillet he’d been holding with a clatter that’s barely audible over the choking and yelling of the crowd. A middle aged woman in the front row meets his eyes, her mouth opening wordlessly, hands clutching at her belly as she bends double and crumples into the dirt.
“Aw, dunk,” Taako mutters, and runs.
He finds Sazed in the back and grabs his arm, pulling him along to the wagon. Already, he’s running over everything in his head, every ingredient, every spell.
“T-Taako?” Sazed looks startled, his jaw slack. Someone screams, a brief wail that cuts through the air, but mostly the crowd is quiet. Taako doesn’t think about it, pulling Sazed along by one clammy hand.
“We gotta go,” Taako says, climbing onto the stagecoach. It’s the last thing he says for hours. Eventually, he has Sazed stop on the side of the road so he can rummage through his bags for a change of clothes, leaving the old ones in a ditch. They reek of garlic.