In the holy house you sit, like you do for a watch every week, in your sacred tree under the starless sky, by the vats where the food grows, caring for the curdled nourishment of the second mind.
But today is different, today the vats won’t hold. You remember the old tales, the rituals that ward off the thing that never happens and now has. You’ve raised the alarm. This is not the first time, though memory is scant. This yoghurt will grow, relentless, the pores will be filled. But what is it whispering? You’ve warned the others, they are safe. But you are the one on duty and you know what that means, no matter how you sob.
The relics, the weeping statues, the hearts and livers of your forebears, the ones that have fallen silent but whose roots stretch down past the oldest memories, those few who still speak, you must save the relics.
There is still time, there are things to grab that will help. Spread some salt here to stunt the growth? See: it grows slow on stone, it sprouts up on soil… Spill some vinegar, mess the soil, leave yourself a path out. And what of the lanterns on the wall? You have fire… let that which is formless meet something of its kind.
What can be retained of things immemorial?
And what is it whispering?
What are you when the formless angel spreads itself in its stronger existence?
Hurt Yoghurt – A game about the relationship between man and woman, between individual and society, between mankind and the universe.