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minim0t · 13 hours
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oohh you just have no idea
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minim0t · 3 days
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Here's the full cover for the book III paperback with no text. It took me more than a week to paint, it's definitely the most ambitious piece I've made in a long time!
Detail shots below:
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minim0t · 3 days
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minim0t · 3 days
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I've started a webcomic, OUR FIERCE DIFFERENCES. In a deep, wide desert on the brink of war, two souls form an unlikely friendship as they work together to save others and themselves from coming disaster. It features a lot of biting, but the good kind of biting
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Read it below
Webtoon
Tapas
Also read the uncensored version on my Patreon!
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minim0t · 3 days
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Hey guys. Hope you're all doing okay. I decided to post an art dump of all the stuff I had been working on for the past several months. I just don't care to finish them. I'm numb to it all, G/t doesn't give me that excitement that it use to.
and being a Palestinian and watching 6+ months of horror and disgust has fucked me up. I'm not going to lie, I'm not okay, but I want ZERO pity.
So I'm going to go back into the shadows for awhile. If you try to reach out, I may not respond.
Just love who you have, and live for what makes you happy.
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minim0t · 6 days
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I'm thrilled to announce~
The Summer Road is coming out August 2nd, 2024!
This is the third installment in my series: The Moth and the Bear. It features adventure! Mystery! Two bozos awkwardly pining for each other! Wistful longing! And some surprising twists as well...
Stay tuned for preorders, which will be available this summer!
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minim0t · 6 days
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Anyone else seen these videos on tiktok?
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minim0t · 11 days
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Light the way, @dolldays
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minim0t · 14 days
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Get well soon
(via)
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minim0t · 16 days
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Let me show you one of my original concepts :>
Because. Why not haha👍
Characters refs
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minim0t · 16 days
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Something something humans are space orcs but that human is weird even by the Earth standards👍
Like..part 2? I guess:)
Previous
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minim0t · 17 days
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She’s really not too bright and moonrise tower isn’t exactly built to fit a giant, but if she thinks real hard about it and wriggles through the arches with enough determination, I think she can make her way through it and rescue Miss Minthara
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minim0t · 19 days
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via @indiarosecrawford
𝑓ₒᵣ ⲕᵢ𝑛𝑔 ₐ𝑛𝑑 𝑐ₒ𝑡𝑡ₐ𝑔ₑ
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minim0t · 19 days
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Project Jam
(Carpenter ant commission for @futurebird !)
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minim0t · 22 days
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Counting the Cost
Part 8 of my story. See the index and content warnings here, read part 1 here and the previous part here.
Doctor Herman Avery always did his best to keep his anger locked up safe and sound, like a shotgun or a family heirloom. He was well acquainted with the devastation that could happen if he didn’t, all the brutality the army had trained into him that now haunted the murky waters of his unconscious mind. Every so often, however, his efforts would falter, and some inconsequential thing would send his animalistic side flying from its choke chain to sink its fangs into the nearest designated target.
That night, the inconsequential thing in question had been a broken teacup in the kitchen, and Joe Piccoli had almost become that target when the doctor had covered his exits, grabbed a jar, and went to work on the floorboards with every intention of capturing Joe, handing him straight to the professor and saying, “here, you take the little pest, get him out of my house, I don’t want him anymore!”
Now the consequences of the doctor’s actions stared up at him from below the kitchen floorboards, and as he clutched the jar in his quivering hand he was once again confronted by Joe’s undeniable personhood.
Maybe it was the ring dish in the northwestern corner that was tugging at his heartstrings, with the three painted plates Joe had shown him earlier. Gifts from his father to his mother, Joe had said. Maybe it was the old leather ring box that sat kitty-corner to the dish which the odd arm or pant leg of a piece of clothing snaked out of, marking it as a wardrobe of sorts. Maybe it was the collection of borrowing tools that were stood against a southerly floor beam across from that; there was what looked like a spear made from a twig and a large embroidery needle, plus a collection of hooks, weights and twine all neatly sorted and tied off. A pair of decaying boots sat nearby them, alongside what appeared to be some books haphazardly stacked into a tower. The northeastern corner of the space, which was barely a square foot in area in its entirety, was where Joe slept: an assorted pile of fabric scraps made up a makeshift nest in a corner formed by another beam and the wall. The entire floor was covered with larger fabric swatches in what appeared to be an attempt at carpeting the place.
All of it was so undeniably intimate and personal that he suddenly found it difficult to look at. Everything about this once-mysterious entity’s life was now laid bare before the doctor, who felt like he had just shot a unicorn. And so, as the man who was no bigger than his thumb cowered and shook in the pile of scraps below him, the doctor could not bring himself to put Joe into a jar, where a praying mantis or a caterpillar or a spider would go. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch him at all for fear he might harm the poor man.
Instead, he took a good, hard look at himself and said, “I should not have done this,” more to himself than to Joe, then set the jar aside.
Joe, ghostly white with terror, scowled and gave a shaky nod in agreement and for a moment the two stared at each other with no idea what to say. What was there to say? Doctor Avery had just broken into this poor, unfortunate little man’s home. If his mother were alive she would have strangled him for it.
“I… suppose we ought to shake hands.” The doctor sputtered out.
A look of confusion came over Joe as the doctor smoothly extended the tip of his pinkie finger towards him. Joe cowered away from it as it came close, side-eyed it for a moment, then grabbed it and let it go in the span of a split second to make it retreat again.
With his sad excuse for a formal introduction completed, the doctor got up to pour himself a much-needed glass of whiskey. He offered some to Joe, who denied it with a swift head shake. When he sat back down, the terrified Joe finally began to speak in a low stutter.
“D-d-did you really have to d-d-destroy my roof?” He asked as he stood up from the pile and drew forward, his neck craned up at the doctor and his face all red, as if whatever angry rant held inside him were bottlenecked by the fear in his throat. “You’re t-t-t-treating me like I’m not even… not even… not even…”
The word human hung in the air and separated them like a glass wall, with doctor Avery on the inside and Joe on the outside. The doctor replayed the events of the day in his mind: the fallen clock, the phone call, finding the teacup. How the doctor had been thoroughly oblivious to the fact that his fuse had been lit and burning all the while – that is, until everything had blown up in both their faces. How viciously angry he had been at his downstairs neighbour. How badly he had wanted to shove a finger in Joe’s face, inform him that this was his house the tiny was living in, to scare him into shaping up or to throw him out completely.
All were things the doctor’s father would have done to him when he had been small. All were things that had made doctor Avery himself feel less than human.
Facing that, the doctor took a sledgehammer to that glass wall with two words:
“…I’m sorry.”
He watched as incredulity crept into Joe’s angry features. The doctor continued.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m incredibly sorry.” Doctor Avery reached up to the counter from where he sat and pulled down the little grey book professor Hill had given him. He flipped it open to the section on marking and showed the pages to Joe. “I simply didn’t want you to end up like this.”
There on the page was a series of cross-section drawings of various miniatures young and old, each facing the left, with the remains of where their ears used to be on plain display. Joe’s eyes widened for a split second, but then his determined scowl held firm.
“I know about that!” Joe protested, his voice growing stronger. “It’s up to me, doc. If it happens, it happens and it’ll be my own damn fault.”
The doctor looked sadly at the cross-sections, then to Joe himself. He could see him in full view now. His hands and face, to the doctor’s relief, were cleaner than before. A simple black sweater clung to his thin, matchstick frame, and he wore grey linen trousers that had been patched all to hell, held around his waist with black cord and wishes. He was completely barefoot and the doctor’s heart broke when he saw that Joe had lost not one, but two of the smallest toes on his right foot to what was in all likelihood frostbite.
From his appearance, it was obvious that Joe was a man who had already endured several winters worth of hell. Who was doctor Avery to decide what he could and couldn’t handle?
And so, the doctor, with no gumption left in him and no ethics left to hold on to, had no choice but to relent. He let out a deep sigh, but at the end of it he said:
“…okay. I trust you. We can keep being friends if you like.”
“Thank you.” Was all Joe said in response.
“Would you like your floorboards back?” Doctor Avery asked, fully expecting Joe’s answer to be yes.
Joe hesitated instead, easing himself back down onto the pile of fabric scraps and sitting there. The rage and the fear in the miniature’s face had given way to a look of deep sadness that bordered on pain.
“Actually I—I was thinking we could just… talk.” Joe admitted.
Talk. One simple word that called the doctor’s animal ire back to its master for good. Joe had not wanted to make the doctor’s life miserable. He had not even wanted to tear the house apart as professor Hill had so relayed to him. He had wanted to be listened to. He had wanted to talk.  
So the doctor started talking, and although he would never live down the guilt of that night, he developed a new appreciation for the advice his old friend Sun Tzu had given him that morning:
"He who wishes to fight must first count the cost."
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minim0t · 22 days
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The Trick to Eating Chocolate
Part 1 of an ongoing story. See the index and content warnings here.
When Joe Piccoli had set out to grab a few things from the pantry that day, he had expected a journey that was identical to the last day’s journey, which had been identical to the journey of the day before that. What he had not expected to encounter was the brazen insult that now stood before him.
“Dear sneak-thief”, read the handwritten cursive on the folded note that stood as high as he was tall, “if you want something to eat, just ask!”
Sneak-thief. Sneak-thief! The audacity of it. Didn’t his new neighbour know that Joe was practically the landlord when squatter’s rights were taken into account? Oh, but that was not the end of it! That tall bastard was not only accusing him of being a thief for taking food from his pantry, but clearly attempting to murder him as well. The note had been set upon a small saucer, and on that plate was a brick of brown gold that the guys down at the docks would kill for: a piece of chocolate about the length of his forearm. Easily worth a fortune, deadly though it often was.
To top it all off, the offering had been placed next to the wall in the kitchen, directly outside of Joe’s favourite entry and exit hole where the pipe from the kitchen radiator entered the floor, as if this human whom he now regrettably had to share air with were saying, I know where you live.
Still, as he circled around the saucer and examined the delicate floral designs that, being hand painted by a giant, left much detail to be desired, he couldn’t help but think that this peace offering had some merit to it. If there were one thing it was almost impossible for a tiny like him to acquire, it was chocolate. Unlike the stray crumbs of chips or the half-eaten pieces of toast or even the stray spillings of sugar that lingered on countertops everywhere, the big people either devoured their chocolate down to the last atom, or kept it sealed away in boxes or wrappings that were a nightmare to get into.
So it was no secret to the borrowers who knew their stuff that, if a human ever wanted to get rid of a tiny infestation quickly and easily, all they had to do was offer up some chocolate that had been laced with rat poison. The poor fools of the world who ate it would be dead within the day. Many tinies who had a death wish would stubbornly partake knowing full well it could kill them; a delicacy was a delicacy after all. Joe was one such individual, and to date he had survived a total of three poisonings. There was a trick to eating chocolate and surviving, Joe had discovered, knowledge that had narrowly cost him his life to acquire.
He pulled out his boot knife and shaved off a piece about the size of his thumb and no larger – that was the first step. The second step was to take exactly one bite of it, and so he did. The third step was to wait for the nausea and the chills to set in. It was an inexact science. An act of playing chicken with death. Sometimes the sickness set in within minutes of the first bite depending on the amount of poison that had been used; other times it set in closer to the third. At most he had a half an hour before it doubled him over. Smarter borrowers than he would wonder why Joe would bother taste testing such a thing at all, but if there were any delicacy greater than poisoned chocolate down at the docks, it was unpoisoned chocolate – the white whale every career borrower dreamed of finding and reselling at least once in their lives.
As he sat on the edge of the saucer and waited, he tried not to let his hopes of finding that white whale get the best of him. There was not a single human in the world, he was certain, who didn’t have ulterior motives. His thoughts turned to the human who had invaded his home. What had given him away? Had the tall bastard found his footprints? Had he dropped something on his travels? Had - god forbid - he been spotted while roaming what had at one point been his house? If you want something to eat, just ask! As though that doctor was the boss of the place!
The clock in the parlour ticked away as the afternoon shadows crept along Victorian green wallpaper that had to be well over 50 years old by now. Motes of dust drifted lazily through the still air, as though they were only half-heartedly bound by the passage of time. Joe, who very much was bound by the passage of time, felt no chills. He took the second bite and continued to think.
A haunting realization hit him much too late: if this man were a doctor, perhaps the poison was more discreet than the average person’s. Maybe Joe was a dead man walking already. Maybe so much as touching the stuff with his bare hands had already marked him for death. His mind cycled back through every instance of cruelty from the big people he had witnessed in his young life, of which there were many: stompings, torchings, crushings, among countless other heinous crimes. If he were already good as dead, what would the doctor in all his humanity do with him afterwards? Would he be dissected? Put on display? Sold to some science museum? Grappling with the sudden regret of his decision, he started weighing his options. Should he induce vomiting? Would it help at all if he did?
In spite of all his worrying, the chills still hadn’t set in. He felt no pain. No tingling. The half hour had passed unceremoniously; if he were going to drop dead, it was taking an awful long time to happen.
That hope rose within him once again, louder now and the hope – well, that was what killed you, Joe reasoned. Either that or it made you rich. In this case, the amount of chocolate he had been left with would easily be enough to buy himself a place on the housing list of his local Tiny Town, so that he could have the privilege of waiting three years to once again have a home all to himself... provided he could remain financially stable enough to pay the rent.
If this was the Canadian dream, he didn’t want to know what the American tinies were getting up to.
Dead man or not, as the time kept ticking by the point came where he had to know for certain: he had to take bite number three. Every borrower had their respective borrowing “style,” as those in the trade called it, and his style just happened to involve fucking around and finding out. They didn’t call him Cast-iron Joe for nothing, he supposed.
His frustration grew as the clock kept ticking, and the shadows kept creeping, and the motes kept drifting, and all the while he remained stubbornly alive after three bites of dubiously poisoned chocolate; an aliveness that raised a question that vexed him:
Why?
Why would this doctor be nice to him? Why would he offer him food? Why write to him? Why do any of this? He began to feel dirty, somehow. Disgusted with himself. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin and run far away from this house and this kind man who would call him a sneak-thief but feed him a delicacy nonetheless without even bothering to try to kill him with it. Joe knew that even eating the food that had been left out for him was the sort of thing the guys at the docks would call “pet behaviour” – but what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them, and the less they knew, the richer he would be in the long run.
 He took out his knife and carved off another piece, a larger one this time, taking bite number four, then five, until he was passively munching on it as if it were any other afternoon snack. With each bite and each passing minute the looming threat of death grew weaker and weaker, until-
-the porch steps creaked under the human’s heavy footsteps and a key scraped the lock from down the hallway, snapping Joe back to attention. Fear paralyzed him, as though he were a boy about to be caught misbehaving by his father. The chime of the clock striking six rang in his ears as if the house itself had issued its condemnation, causing all thought to leave him. Then a newer, larger shadow crept along the house’s walls, closer and closer to where Joe stood. Even the motes seemed to scatter in a frenzy as the human, with all his thumping and bumping and banging and clunking, disturbed the quiet peace of what had once been Joe’s sanctuary. Joe scattered along with them, skidding into the space between the floor and the pipe – but not before taking the brick of chocolate along with him.
In the safety of the floorboards, clutching his prize as it slowly melted into the sleeves of his jacket, he dared not move a muscle as the footsteps drew closer and closer, until they shook the wood above and hammered in his very head. He could faintly see the wooden slats shift under the human’s weight as the doctor knelt down to inspect what remained of his offering.
Through the floorboards, Joe could hear the incredulous doctor let out a low chuckle that somehow only managed to add further insult, for it was not unlike the way an adult would chuckle at a small child. Against his better judgment, Joe crept closer to the light above, pulled by that morbid curiosity, that lingering why. He only ever saw the doctor in glimpses, and each time it had been involuntary, but now he couldn’t help but find himself drawn back to the light above like a man in search of forbidden knowledge.
As he craned his neck up from his place in the darkness, Joe could just make out the blur of the human’s hands before he was blinded by the spark-and-burn of a struck match and the darkness was no more. His dumbstruck gaze was met with a single, gigantic eyeball peering at him from behind the flame, the orange light dancing across its bands of amber-brown colour. The eye blinked and narrowed, then widened into a shocked expression that matched Joe’s own.
Primordial fear overtook him at the sight. He fell back in shock, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted into the darkness. As he ran, the voice of the doctor, omnipresent as the voice of a god rang through him:
“Wait, don’t run! Come back!”
The floorboards shook again in what Joe could only imagine were the doctor’s attempts to pull the floor open and grab him. He didn’t know for certain what the man’s motives were and he didn’t care: he had escaped with his life and five thousand scraps’ worth of unpoisoned chocolate. The rest, Joe decided, as exhaustion forced him to come to a halt all the way across the other side of the house, he would figure out tomorrow.
Oh, how he wished this day had been a normal day like any other. Something told him tomorrow would be even worse.
If you've read this far, you may want to check out the next part here! Thank you so much for taking interest in my work.
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minim0t · 25 days
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first ll prev ll next coming one day
Hello again, got the "being sick" part of the winter done hahaaahh, I'm a little bit late.
This update has a couple of spells, translations and little notes for those under read more. See you in a month again I guess, thanks for reading!
Bond with alder - spell
The red leaf of alder The slender finger of alder Strong is the power in your bark The anger of the woods in your curves
I sing you the song of fae, of milk hay's, of soil's child of May's child, of the spell maker of the bringer of golden spring
Give me a day, the time of one leaf The hazy time of the sun. Golden red from your treetop, one bend from your annual rings. A moment from inside your roots A moment from the deep waters.
Notes: Alder is known as "fae tree" in old beliefs, it has an innate connection to the väki of the woods. I was initially going to let Varpu call themselves "voikukka" (dandelion) here, but they might reserve it only for their favourite trees :) So there's a couple of older words for the same flower (mayflower and milkhay were some among many, many others. Dandelion was closely linked to agriculture and for cows especially, the finnish current name voikukka still literally means "butter flower".
Situational bond-breaking spell
Human flame, son of Ukko Leave us, this circle. For you the sunny morning, For us, the eternal evening.
Notes: Flame is a nod to the three-faceted soul thing, I've probably mentioned when bonding spells were last in the comic. It's a placeholder for löyly, which could've worked also, but I think I used fire imaginary in the original spell haha. Ukko is an ancient rain god, later renamed as a thunder god, but his reign and relationship to humans has been a bit different for other nordic-baltic sky gods. Here's it's just another nod for humans being Of Sky while fae is Of Soil.
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