#magstarionweek

[onlyancunin]

So yeah, I tried to make something for the Magstarion week, but it quickly became the story of my life: too little too late.

I'll probably finish it, someday. At least I'd like to. I'm trying to finally learn digital illustration, so I'll be on the lookout for some coloring techniques & tutorials.

For now here's the lineart WIP, before I lose the file in the depths of my SSD.

P.S. Yes, this is Cersei's wine cup lmao

[lirotation]

Magistrate Ancunín

For #magstarionweek

Only did one, somehow I thought it was one prompt per week 😅🤣

[thiriann]

Magistrate Ancunín

For #magstarionweek

I've always wanted to participate in these kinds of events and I'm super happy I managed to catch this one on time :)

[vancunin]

[vianstel]

Good day everyone!! We have organised a Magistrate Astarion Week (September 1st - 5th), since we barely know anything about his previous life! Use the hashtag #magstarionweek to share your headcanons, art, fics, screenshots and more revolving around Magstarion.

Have fun <333

(I forgot to post it on tumblr earlier, my apologies)

[a-spawn-on-my-lawn]

magstarry for u :3

[cinnamontails-ff]

Magistrate Astarion Week - Day 4

The Domestication of Magistrate Astarion - aka, he's good at coaxing people into his bed, sure, but when one of them actually stays the night and then proceeds to make him breakfast, he kinda sorta loses his shit.

Day 4: Lifestyle (minor NSFW mentions)

Astarion sheathed his dagger and strode into the kitchen. “Good morning, darling.” She whirled around with a start, one hand flying to the necklace that peeked out of her leisurely buttoned blouse. He remembered looking at it last night when she’d been asleep in his arms, wondering what might be inside the little locket. Surely not a picture of one of her parents. Perhaps one of her cat? Some legal philosopher who had passed hundreds of years ago? “Oh, good morning,” she said. “I … didn’t realize you were up.” “Indeed I am.” He leaned against the kitchen counter with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “And you, my dear, are still here.” He’d meant it teasingly, but her eyes widened in shock. “Do you want me to leave?” “Gods above, no!” He laughed, trying to mask the urgency in his tone, and slung an arm around her waist. “I’d never blame you for wanting the … morning program.” He pulled her flush against himself, one hand dipping lower to where her shirt was ending and her ass began, just as he’d done hundreds of times before. If she was still here, it meant she hadn’t quite gotten yet what she’d come for. Which was honestly a little ridiculous, given how many times he’d made her orgasm last night, but he’d be sure to provide. He’d give her everything she wanted. “Actually …” Smiling nervously, she took a half step backward. “I thought we could have breakfast? I’m starving.” Astarion followed her gesturing to the bowl full of eggs, next to it a loaf of fresh bread that definitely hadn’t been in his house yesterday. “Breakfast?” He eyed her, trying to gauge what this was. A fantasy of being spread out over the kitchen counter as he licked scrambled eggs out of her navel? Not that he’d be opposed to it — the Gods knew he’d facilitated odder fantasies in the past. But she didn’t look like there was anything carnal on her mind. In fact, most of her attention was on the dab of butter she’d deposited in the pan, watching with excitement as it started sizzling. “I went to the market this morning,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind I brought all this stuff here. I was just really hungry after … you know.” Her blush was so disorientingly pretty, he couldn’t even come up with one of his usual innuendos. He just watched her in dumbstruck silence as she cut the bread into thick slices and poured him a cup of coffee, his hands accepting it automatically. She was still here. He’d fucked her to the brink of passing out and she was still here. Puttering around in his kitchen as if she had nowhere better to be on her day off. As if she was … comfortable. “Could you set the table?” she asked, stirring the eggs in the pan. “I’m not sure where you have your silverware.” Astarion also wasn’t sure, but he was glad to occupy his mind with a more solvable conundrum. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d actually sat down at the kitchen counter, rather than bend someone over it until they screamed his name. It felt nice.

Excerpt from chapter 15 of "Magistrate's Advocate"

[baklavagyna]

magstarionweek day 4 except its not day 4 anymore. wardrobe malfunction.......TWO. no one told astarion that his white pants are sheer.

sorry this is so fucking low effort but i have been absolutely fucking demolished by work but something is better than nothing amirite ladies. take solace in the pink whale tail.....

[anda-arts]

Super quick and dirty sketch of Magistrate!Astarion for Magistarion Week, for Day 1: Appearance. Bc I did a quick portrait sketch I decided to go with eyewear and give him a monocle lol.

Maybe I'll render this one out one day. But I have another idea for magistrate Astarion that I might wanna do first, since Astarion as Magistrate was the runner up in that poll I did.

Support me on Ko-Fi or Patreon

Commission Info

[amischiefofmice]

magistrate week?

magistrate week!

Saw this going around so finished up my version of how it all started to go oh so wrong for our little bitey boy

[aaluminiumas]

Sacrifice

If you like this work, you can read others here.

His bloody fingers twitched once, twice, and the unexpected bolt of electricity coursed through his brain: by some terrible mistake, he was still alive. By some terrible mistake, his cloudy mind was still registering the surroundings. By some terrible mistake, his body withstood the onslaught of violence it wasn’t supposed to endure.

Did he have some time to take a long drag on that pipe the city council had brought him as a gift—as a bribe? He most likely didn’t. Too bad, he loved this pipe. He didn’t even smoke that much; he flaunted, putting his respectable position on display—and the presents that came with it. The council went to great lengths to please the most brilliant—and utterly corrupted—magistrate and must’ve spent hours picking the perfect offering. Astarion wasn’t easy to deal with: he willingly flouted the law and warped the regulations the way he saw fit but only when driven by his diverse and ever-changing whims. He could nonchalantly bail out a criminal or a public official charged with abuse of power—when he wanted that. Consequently, Astarion got himself a questionable reputation: on the one hand, he was universally recognized as a smart magistrate. On the other, he should have been prosecuted likewise and indicted on charges of abuse of power, but in the fine city of Baldur’s Gate, such violations weren’t even deemed harrowing. Transgressions like this were common; this rotten place had seen things far more impressive and horrifying than a magistrate trying to whitewash and re-establish some rascal’s sullied name.

So, the city council must’ve racked his brains seeking a decent present. The pipe was made of the best one-hundred-year-old oak, inlaid with gold, and polished with the petals of night orchid and corpse rose, or so he intoned, groveling before the magistrate’s desk. Astarion very much doubted that last bit, but he appreciated the effort—and eventually accepted the sop after giving the council a profound lecture on law and order. The suspect was acquitted, the case open and shut, and the nature of the crime brought up privately in his office was carefully buried in the depth of his beautiful mind. Not everyone was pleased, of course. But they were always asking the impossible. They sure didn’t expect him to serve the good citizens of Baldur’s Gate for free, did they? He studied hard and well, employed all his congenital charisma and wit, so he had a legal right to taste a little luxury here and there. That was only fair!..

Ah. Astarion glanced at his hands. He couldn’t see much: his fingers were crusted with clotted blood, painting his marble skin in all shades of burgundy that always gave him an unnatural grayish complexion, turning him into an incorporeal wraith roaming across the mazelike passages of the court. He sported a ruby red dress once, saw himself in a mirror, and discarded it, thinking it a very poor choice for his refined features. Ironically, this was exactly the color that stained his shirt.

Astarion tried to peel back the fabric, but the raw edges of the wound immediately responded, sending another spurt of blood his way. He was bleeding profusely and would probably die by morning.

Or in another hour. Or in any minute. Stupid Gur. He should’ve accused their wretched gang of something vile and ignominious, so they would have had to pack their things and abscond while they still could. Because he would make sure they were reduced to a non-existent nonentity. Good-for-nothing misfits. If they wanted to teach him a lesson, they overdid it. If they wanted to kill him, they failed abysmally. Sorrowful, deplorable cowards. Maybe he still had enough strength in his perishing limbs to write a note? He’d press charges against the Gur, someone would initiate an investigation, and it’d be over in a week.

He’ll be over, too. He didn’t expect his life to end like this, with his intestines painfully throbbing with his every shallow breath. Leaning against one wall, Astarion was left to observe the remnants of his once refined home, furnished with exquisite taste, and realize that his life was trickling like sand. He couldn’t move; his every limb seemed to have been broken, and pain, searing, impossible pain seized him, twisting every cell sideways and wringing his inner organs. It never let go; once this ache abated in one spot, it instantly resumed in another, growing in size and intensity, spreading an incandescent glow of anguish across his frame. Even breathing hurt: Astarion sensed a slight pulsation of blood underneath his hands every time he inhaled, but he couldn’t pinpoint what was injured—either because he was already losing control over his consciousness and succumbing to his mortal fantasies or because the lesions were so numerous it was pointless to locate the fountainhead of his suffering.

Still, he was fairly certain that his broken ribs must’ve punctured his lungs, and the connected bones responded with an equal dull ache, causing him to overcome unbearable anguish worthy of a religious martyr. It pattered in his whole body, rolled across his shoulders, hammered him in the chest and in the back, slithered down to his legs, and darted to his neck, lodging in his throat, falling into the pit of his stomach and climbing up across every broken rib, clawing onto every fracture and wedging into every cleft, nesting in the fragments of bone. His porcelain skin he was so proud of, was now decorated in ruby rivulets of blood, some of them growing bigger and morphing into languid streams. The newly acquired bruises painted him purple: swollen welts reminded him of a universe he once spotted in a lengthy treaty with beautifully made engravings.

All of a sudden, the steady ticking of the clock, the only sound that reigned in the quiet house, was punctuated by a feeble squeaking of the door, the barely audible sound echoing through the slumbering, lugubrious mansion. Who might that be? Did the Gur come back to finish him? Hardly possible. They wouldn’t put their own lives at stake. They were stupid, not foolhardy: they couldn’t afford to be reckless two times a day—that might result in unnecessary complications for their craft and trade. Did an assistant stop by?.. No: that idiot would’ve hurtled into the office, his flailing arms cutting and slashing the air. The silent visitor attenuated the noise as if wanting to inspect the surroundings and confirm a hunch. What hunch that might be, Astarion could only guess.

A light tread reverberated in the vast corridor—a set of soft, tentative steps threading toward his office. Obviously, a thief. The city was abrim with outcasts of all sorts, and the most vigilant burglars may have spotted signs of a melee. Usually, all melees in Baldur’s Gate ended in a most predictable way: people carried knives at all times.

The light steps halted at the door as if the cautious intruder was mesmerized by the trail of blood that led to the room. This blood spoor must’ve left ugly stains on his rugs and statues. The mere thought caused a painful, infuriating spasm. He’d better be dying soon, otherwise he’d have an additional heart attack and he’s way too young for that.

The door hissed open, revealing a tall, scrawny, wiry figure of a man holding a quarterstaff. Astarion needed a solid moment to recognize the stranger. Certainly, one of the most opulent dwellers, belonging to the entitled circles, Cazador Szarr, barely participated in social activities: he might’ve stopped by Lady Jannath’s exhibition, and that was it. People knew a few things, most of them shoddy scuttlebutt not worthy of anyone’s attention, and Cazador didn’t seem particularly interested in debunking the myths about his mystifying persona.

“Oh, if it isn’t Cazador Szarr himself,” Astarion greeted in his somewhat trenchant manner, his voice laden with sardonic waspishness, “If you’re here for legal advice, I’m afraid, I am in no condition to provide.”

“I am not here for that,” the man replied, his strange eyes—were they predatory red?—glaring directly at him, his reedy voice laced with an emotion Astarion failed to grasp. “I have been watching you, Astarion. The world will be an empty place without you in it.”

“Sure. It will lose a talented magistrate,” he parried in the same sarcastic tone, wincing in pain, “Why are you here, wasting your precious time and my final moments on earth?”

“This is precisely the reason for my visit. I can prolong these final moments of yours, Astarion. I can stretch them into many eternities to come, but you will have to pay… a price.”

“What price?” Astarion’s voice lost its jeering quality, his ears instantly perked up. A diffident noble always remained a diffident noble, but his experience prodded him to hear out the conditions—after all, this young magistrate never had trouble changing sides, once the situation grew dire. “But, for the love of gods, don’t linger. I don’t have even one eternity at my disposal.”

“A reasonable one.”

Cazador, who always had a chip on his shoulder, rarely deigned to speak to those he didn’t consider equals—or so the word went. He preferred the most annoying ruse of all, the one he’d just used: he perplexed people, made them enquire, and then relished in the quandary he’d initiated. Stalling further, the man brushed off an imaginable mote of dust from the velvet armchair and sat down opposite Astarion, crossing his legs and leaning back. “Sacrifice the sun and become the creature of the night.”

Every pause was measured. Every word that left his mouth was pondered, and every sound was unmistakable even for a man standing at death’s door, and yet Astarion was convinced he’d misheard. The creature of the night? Did he imply the nascent cult of Bhaal? How many Bhaalists were there, thrashing about in the boughs in the park, clambering to the top, ambushing their victim? But no, it seemed far-fetched: Bhaalist might be obsessed with darkness where they could hide and strike, but it would be a little of an overreach to call them creatures of the night. Shadow-Cursed Lands? The shadows that inhabited the place? This curse didn’t sound probable, the old story about some mortified, disparaged general didn’t pertain to Baldur’s Gate. Was there any other god or goddess involved? Hardly. Sharrans wore insignia, and Cazador had none. Myrkul’s doings? At this point, death would only become the beginning—

And then he understood. Sacrifice the sun, he said.

Once the idea settled down in his dying brain, Astarion mustered a barking laughter that was mostly a coughing sound in the throat.

“Vampires? Really? What other predators do you insist on making? Hags? Gnolls? Gods, this is ridiculous. Get out of my house, let me meet my maker peacefully, wallowing in luxury I earned by dealing with excruciating drudgery every single day of my tenure.”

If Cazador felt a flare of anger, he didn’t show it, but his eyes did gleam with threat, exposing a glimpse of ill-hidden contempt.

“Luxury?” the vampire’s voice sounded deadpan and neutral. “Mere knickknacks of a petulant child trying to make a name for himself. I am offering you the power you’ve never known before. I am offering you a gift no one else can give. With it, you will be able to acquire anything you want, and for that, I am asking you to simply say yes. Say yes, and avenge those miserable wrecks who ruined your beautiful life. Say yes, and you will never have to worry about death derailing your plans.”

Astarion paused for a moment, his consciousness reeling. The temptation was irresistible, and, in all honesty, he didn’t want to die. It didn’t have anything to do with his future prospects or grand plans, vaunted abilities he wanted to exercise, piles of money he could make—he just wanted to relish life for a little longer, to try new things, to visit other cities, become a council, arrange his own saloon for the most notorious scandalmongers poking noses into every affair… and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it, because a bunch of fortune teller-vampire-hunters-whoever-else-they-were decided that they could replace Tyr and sow justice. Fuck them. Fuck everything.

Cazador waited patiently, but his scary illuminating eyes betrayed a spark of dark anticipation. Other than that, it was impossible to say what thoughts crossed his mind: perhaps, only the fingertips that grew restive on the armrests exposed his emotion.

“Your time is running out, Astation,” he drawled leisurely, his thin lips curling in a grin. “By my reckoning, you will die in another hour. And you know it, too. I can smell it in the air. You are dying. And death will come very, very soon.”

The words hung in the stale air of the room, stinking with blood and sweat. Not a single sound penetrated the thick walls of his mansion, and the time seemed to have frozen, petrifying both lean figures in the room: one, dark-haired, erect and straight, sitting languorously in the armchair, and the other, sprawling across the floor, leaning against the bookshelf. The minutes were steadily ticking by, measuring Astarion’s final hours in the world of mortals, sometimes accompanied by a rare squeak of wood.

For the first time, Astarion realized how scared he actually was. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. He had so many things to do, and a gang of hillbillies took it upon themselves to end his beautiful life like this.

“Yes,” he muttered, losing his bluster and feeling his lips going dry, “Yes, please. Yes, I agree. Make me… the creature of the night.”

Cazador must’ve anticipated such an answer: even before the trembling request fell off the bloodied lips, the vampire had leaped to his feet, revealing his impatience and feline grace. Trying to keep himself in check, the man inhaled the scent of death, savoring the heavy tang, feeling the flavor of blood dissolving at the tip of his tongue.

“Do not discompose yourself, child,” he hissed in a singsong voice, lowering himself so his face was on the same level with Astarion’s. “It’ll only be a moment.”

The vampire’s voracious appetite was obvious: he was losing control, and the smell of blood engulfing his slender figure, interweaving with the scent of polished wood and broken perfume vials, aggravated the situation, causing his acute senses to blare. Driven to insanity with the intoxicating odor and Astarion’s infuriating temerity earlier on, Cazador bit into the man’s neck with diabolic ferocity. Only the stream of fresh, warm blood gushing out of the wound dulled his irritation, and the sweet wail of anguish, though feeble and muffled, pictured a beautiful picture in his perverse, devious mind.

You belong to me, Cazador gloated, from now on you belong to me.  

[makkuromurasaki]

I give you Astarion Ancunin, the cunty magistrate

For #magstarionweek

alternate version under the cut

[vancunin]

I was feeling a bit inspired by the #magstarionweek theme.

[cinnamontails-ff]

Magistrate Astarion Week - Day 1

*Magistrate Astarion fandom event rolls around*

*me with my Magistrate Astarion longfic that's currently sitting at 150k words* This is my moment to shine!

Day 1: Appearance

By the time she reached his office, she held her head high and hardly even glanced at the golden sign next to the door, proudly proclaiming the owner of these rooms to be Astarion Ancunin, Magistrate of Baldur’s Gate. Because she was fine. And perhaps she really was, right until the moment she opened the door and … there he sat. Feet up on his desk and head thrown back with his eyes closed, silver curls pushed back by the wet towel he pressed to his forehead. “Not yet!” he proclaimed, somehow managing to sound regal and cranky at the same time. “Court shall be in session just as soon as I can evict whatever creatures are currently using the inside of my skull as a practice ground for their heavy infantry.” “Good morning, Astarion.” His eyes flew open and his body straightened, the wet towel landing on the floor carelessly as he rose from his chair. “Oh, what a good morning it is indeed.” The sound of his voice alone, so close to her, not muffled through classroom chattering or the pattering of boots in the hallway, sent an almost physical jolt through her. Astarion rounded the desk leisurely and leaned against it, his chest pushed out in a way that seemed too practiced to be casual. “Zoraya Naelgrath in the flesh,” he drawled. “They told me you were coming, of course, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it for myself. Come here, darling. Let me have a proper look at you.” Zoraya willed herself to maintain eye contact as she approached the desk. Up close, Astarion was even more beautiful than in those fleeting glances she had stolen around law school and the courthouse. He had always been attractive, but as a boy, he used to have an almost angelic presence, full of soft cheeks and sweet smiles. At some point during his teenage years, that had sharpened. Like a steel blade being honed to perfection. The kind of beauty that was scary for what it could get people to do for him. She stopped two steps away from him, trying to take comfort in the fact that in her high heels she was a few inches taller than him. If Astarion was bothered — as most men tended to be — he didn’t let it show. He remained in his comfortable slouch, golden eyes raking over her body as if he intended to draw her from memory as soon as she left. Possibly naked.

(adapted from chapter 2 of "Magistrate's Advocate"; tiny bit of backstory left out to maintain focus on his appearance in compliance with the prompt)

[artmarathon]

I found my dream liner!!!! I love this line brush! So glad I bought it =) My line quality definitely improved, i am happy

Magistrate Ancunín

For #magstarionweek

Only did one, somehow I thought it was one prompt per week 😅🤣

[cinnamontails-ff]

Magistrate Astarion Week - Day 3

Astarion's first attempt at a serious relationship, as narrated by his girlfriend's cat "Objection".

Day 3: Funny

Objection was angry. To be fair, Objection was angry a lot of the time. Several years of living on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, forced to bear witness to the deepest pits of the human psyche, had instilled a sort of general, overarching anger in him. The type that wasn’t directed at anyone or anything so much as at the world at large and his boundless disappointment at being forced to live in it. Now, however, Objection’s anger had shifted. Focused and sharpened, like the little rays of light Zoraya would occasionally send through the house with her hand mirror for him to hunt down. The sheer might of his anger concentrated on a single individual so utterly despicable, Objection had no choice but to devote the entirety of his disdain to him and him alone. The idiot. The intruder. The foppish, ugly little man who had had the gall to saunter into Objection’s home without an invitation, without the customary rodent offerings or so much as a formal bow! Never even realizing that this was in fact Objection’s house. A space he shared with Zoraya on account of an arrangement they’d made years ago: fish treats in exchange for a roof over her head. It had seemed a fair trade at the time, all things considered. Objection was beginning to revise this assessment. No amount of fish treats could compensate him for the agony of having to watch the idiot get down on all fours and hold out his stupid hand and coo, “Come here, kitty cat! Look what I’ve got for you!” Objection turned away majestically, making sure to knock the proffered treat off the idiot’s hand with a swish of his tail. He did not, as a rule, react to nicknames. His name was hand-picked just for him, and he was very fond of it. It was intimidating, frightful even — a name with a bang, so to speak. Really, the idiot ought to be grateful that Objection refrained from chastising him with a well-placed slap across his extremely slappable face. Instead, the man would sigh and hand the rejected treat to Zoraya, his ridiculously oversized ears practically hanging down with misery. “Give him time,” Zoraya would say encouragingly. “He’s shy.” And then she’d pet his idiotic face or press her mouth to his or wrap her whole entire body around him and this — this! — was what made Objection angriest of all. Not the idiot’s presence in his house, but what he did to Zoraya. Objection had chosen her for a reason when he’d decided to settle down after several years of reigning the Lower City with an iron fist. Zoraya was dependable and level-headed. She had excellent taste in treats and was generally quiet enough not to bother him. As soon as the idiot came prancing over the doorstep, that all flew out the window. Her pupils would go wide and the blood would rush to her face when she went to greet him, practically throwing herself into his scrawny arms. Sometimes she’d stay there for an unreasonably long time, making all sorts of odd noises Objection couldn’t decipher, no matter how close he came to listen in. But when she’d pull the idiot into the bedroom — rudely closing the door in Objection’s face — he could make out a sickeningly sweet note in her scent that reminded him of what a female cat in heat smelled like. Which really only added another layer of horror to it all. Because Objection had not signed up for more than one person in his house, let alone a whole litter of idiot-shaped kittens.

Excerpt from chapter 18 of "Magistrate's Advocate"

If you find yourself in desperate need of a spoiler-free Objection prequel, look no further than here.