#gtkmo: 6

[bardic-tales]

Question 5 | Bianca Moore | Question 7

When it comes to understanding a character like Bianca Moore, the details matter, especially the ones that seem deceptively mundane. In this installment of Get to Know My Character, we’re diving into a deceptively intimate question: Are they picky about food?

For Bianca, the answer reveals far more than mere preference. It offers a glimpse into her haunted past, her fragmented identity, and the way she copes with grief and memory through something as ordinary as a plate of food. What she eats isn’t about nourishment, but about memory, ritual, and the trauma that clings to every bite.

Possible Trigger Warnings: blood, cults, death of a parent, demonic themes, ritual murder, trauma

Bianca Moore’s relationship with food is complicated, shaped more by memory and emotion than necessity. As a fallen celestial who feeds on blood, semen, and life energy, human food serves no nutritional purpose to her, but she still indulges for the taste, the texture, and the nostalgia it invokes. Her human upbringing, especially her mother’s lovingly prepared Italian dishes, left a permanent imprint on her. Lasagna rich with béchamel and ricotta, hand-rolled gnocchi, and garlic bread toasted just enough to darken the edges. All of these remind her of warmth and of maternal affection she never quite got to fully appreciate. When she eats, she’s not feeding her body. She��s feeding her memories.

Despite this sentimental connection, Bianca is extraordinarily picky about certain foods. This is not because of flavor or texture, but because of the trauma they carry. She absolutely avoids any meal associated with the fast-casual chain Sbarro. Once a comforting slice of routine in the chaos of mall outings with her father, David Moore, Sbarro’s became a symbol of unbearable loss. It was there, under the too-bright fluorescents and the sterile cheer of holiday decor, that she and David shared a unforgettable Christmas Eve dinner. Bianca remembers the taste of oily pepperoni and overcooked pasta lingering as David got a phone call. They learned her mother had been murdered. That sensory memory, anchored in tragedy, has forever soured anything resembling Sbarro’s cuisine.

Her palate is further influenced by her demonic lineage. She prefers food with bold, rich flavors: sharp cheeses, spiced meats, umami-heavy broths, and bitter herbs. Subtlety doesn’t interest her. She detests anything bland, considering it beneath her. Dishes like oatmeal or plain white rice don’t just bore her. They offend her very nature. She’ll tolerate human meals when they’re decadent or exotic, often leaning toward meals that others might find overwhelming or even unpleasant. The more primal the flavor, the more likely she is to enjoy it, though she’ll never admit the reason is because it stirs her base instincts.

Yet even with her celestial and demonic duality, Bianca retains an almost childlike protectiveness over her mother’s home recipes. She’ll only cook them when she’s alone, in silence. Cooking is an act of grief and remembrance. She’ll prepare the meal, plate it beautifully, and then leave it untouched, unable to cross the threshold of memory and pain that eating it would require. The scent alone is usually enough to reduce her to silence. The only thing that she does enjoy is her mother's pumpkin muffins and she can only eat half of a muffin.

In the end, Bianca’s preferences around food aren’t about taste or texture. They are psychological scars given physical form. Her demonic hunger is always present, quiet and constant, but food is where her grief manifests. Food is history. Food is ritual. And in Bianca’s case, food is pain carefully curated into pleasure. What she eats is a reflection of what she can bear to remember and what she refuses to ever relive.

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