Solana Ruarc MacCraith
@solanarmaccraith.bsky.social
340 followers 720 following 920 posts
Parody/Role play account for OC. AI media is mine. Just me, weaving threads & getting way too invested in fictional people. #WovenByMC #SoloSL #TheOriginalsFandom
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Magic bound before her first breath.
Name erased. Bloodline hunted.
She didn’t beg to survive—she bit down and did.

Quiet doesn’t mean tame.
She remembers in fragments and fights on instinct.
Legacy burns beneath her skin.
Still standing. Still dangerous.

#Threadbound
⚜️ What He Read

He came looking for lies.
Instead, he found honesty—
and it felt like a blade pressed gently to the throat.

#WithinWalls
#Threadbound
“Fool,” he muttered.
To himself. To her. To the ghosts.

But when he left, he didn’t take the journal.
He didn’t destroy it.
He just carried her words like a wound—quiet, deliberate—the kind that didn’t bleed, only burned.

⚜️✔️
No motive he could name. Just the unbearable honesty of a woman who didn’t yet realize what her truth could cost her.

He closed the journal, careful to fold the corner exactly as he found it.

His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—softer around the eyes, haunted in a way he despised.
He exhaled sharply. Disbelief first. Then fury. Then something worse: the ache of being understood.

Because no one wrote about him like that. No one dared.

He told himself she was dangerous—clever enough to weave flattery into prophecy. But this wasn’t flattery. There was no fear in her words.
For once, the voice in his head went still.
He read on.

-Every glance drags something buried in me to the surface, something that wants to bare its teeth and breathe at the same time… When he looks at me, I feel seen and stripped in the same heartbeat.-
He felt the pull of it, the quiet truth of being seen by someone who shouldn’t have known how.

And then—

-All of them except him.-

The words hit like a pulse.

-Klaus doesn’t echo—he consumes.
Where the others feel like home, he feels like gravity.-

His throat went dry.
The handwriting caught him first—deliberate, confident. No flourishes. No pretense.
He should have walked away.
He didn’t.

-They feel like echoes.-

The first line stopped him.

-Elijah’s calm feels like something I used to know…Rebekah burns the way I do when I care too much…-
He scanned the room like a hunter—eyes flicking over the grimoire on the vanity, the ashwood charms, the leather-bound diary.

It hadn’t been left open. He’d opened it.
A choice, not curiosity. A trespass he’d justify later.
She wasn’t there.
He could hear her in the kitchen—the soft clink of porcelain, the slow rise of a kettle, and beneath it all, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

He told himself he’d come under the guise of protection.
Of suspicion.
That was the story he’d keep.
The room was quiet enough to hear the city breathe. Somewhere beyond the walls, jazz tangled with the heartbeat of New Orleans—that strange, familiar rhythm he’d once called his own.

Klaus stood at the edge of Solana’s borrowed room.
He hadn’t meant to be here.
Or so he told himself.
⚜️ What He Read

He came looking for lies.
Instead, he found honesty—
and it felt like a blade pressed gently to the throat.

#WithinWalls
#Threadbound
⚜️ The Shape of Belonging

Home doesn’t always feel gentle. Sometimes it hums through the bones, daring you to stay.

#JournalEntries
#WithinWalls
#Threadbound
When she filled the kettle, her reflection wavered in the copper surface. Not lost. Not trespassing. Just…home.

The kettle began to hum, low and soft, like the house itself exhaling.

Solana smiled.
Whatever came next, she was exactly where she was meant to be.

⚜️✔️
She closed the journal and slipped it back into its place. The walls felt too close, too full of echoes.

So she pulled on a cardigan, padded barefoot down the hall, and turned toward the kitchen.

The compound was uncommonly quiet, almost gentle. The kind of silence that felt alive.
She set the pen down, letting the words dry under the low lamplight. Her pulse had steadied, but her thoughts hadn’t.

Crossing to the mirror, she looked at her reflection—the faint shimmer of the mark beneath her sleeve, the stubborn steadiness in her eyes.
Maybe that’s what happens when storms recognize each other.
Not family. Not safety.
Something older. Wilder.
Something that doesn’t ask to be understood—only answered.

-S.
———
My magic reacts to him like it’s been waiting for a command I don’t remember giving.
When he looks at me, I feel seen and stripped in the same heartbeat—like he’s searching for proof I exist, and I’m terrified he’ll find it.
Klaus doesn’t echo—he consumes.
Where the others feel like home, he feels like gravity.
Every glance drags something buried in me to the surface, something that wants to bare its teeth and breathe at the same time.

He infuriates me.
He fascinates me.
…and Freya holds hers like a promise.

I can’t explain it, but when they’re near, the air changes. My magic hums in tune with theirs—a low, steady pulse that whispers mine. Not in possession, but in belonging.

All of them except him.
———
🕯️ Journal Entry

They feel like echoes.
Not strangers. Not myths. Just…echoes.

Elijah’s calm feels like something I used to know—the kind of memory that lives in the bones, not the mind. Rebekah burns the way I do when I care too much. Hayley carries her fire like a weapon…
She crossed to the bed, sat, and reached for the leather-bound journal that waited on the nightstand. It opened easily, the spine already soft from years of use. The blank page stared back at her, the quiet invitation she’d learned not to resist.

Her pen hovered only a moment before the words came.
The room was dim when she entered, the lamp on her nightstand throwing a tired glow across the walls. Her hands still smelled faintly of candle smoke and iron. She closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled— slow and steady, like she was afraid the air itself might betray what she’d just felt.
⚜️ The Shape of Belonging

Home doesn’t always feel gentle. Sometimes it hums through the bones, daring you to stay.

#JournalEntries
#WithinWalls
#Threadbound
⚜️ The Sigil and the Ward

The sigil was never real. A stolen shape. A counterfeit spell. But it had known her anyway. Not because of what it was—because of who she was.

#WithinWalls
#Threadbound
And now the blood that had been hidden and bound, the blood that Esther once tried to burn from his hands, was walking his halls.

⚜️✔️