FOGOU: 3

He wanders back towards his little stone cell of a house.

The clattering plastic drone swarm broke his sensorium utterly.  A cacophony of birds and insects, now, and the distant machinic hum of the town and the city.

They – the town and the city, the other people from the other world – told him over and over it was unlikely fogous were used for ritual, as druids practised in the open air and their belief system was tied to living things.

The problem with that argument is that nobody really knows what druids believed or practised, because they didn’t write anything down and no practise of theirs survived into modern history.  They were an oral culture, relying on memory rather than paper.  Whatever they actually did, it went extinct with them on the tip of a Roman sword.

Further: everything was a living thing. 

He stopped at the standing stone closest to his house, and laid his palm on its face.  He closed his eyes, and tried to force out the world and focus down on the stone. 

There.  That.  The geologic heartbeat.