You have stumbled upon the deeper mysteries of our Bessus — where the veils are thin and the roots of the world begin.
Here dwell the questions with no answers, the powers beyond name, and the presence that moves through all things. Some choose to walk this path with reverence and study, diving into the ancient breath behind the sacred. Others may find reflections of these mysteries in their own House Customs, quietly honoring them in daily rites or dreams. There is no right or wrong—only what calls to your soul. What you do with what you find here… is yours alone to decide.
Before all things, before even the First Ones (Cintuxtoi), there were the Uellonertoi — the Veiled Powers. They are not pictured, named, or worshipped in the usual way. Rather, they are acknowledged in awe, in silence, in the spaces between stories. They are not gods in the form we know them. They are principles, forces, presences. They are the mysteries that shaped all existence. From their unseen depths emerged the Cintuxtoi — the First Ones, and the dreaming spark of creation. Some may feel their pull as the chill before dawn, the stillness before ritual, or the mystery in the dark well. They are not part of our rites — they are the reason ritual is possible. We do not seek to define them. Their nature is veiled for a reason. Each person may contemplate their own understanding, or simply leave them wrapped in mystery.
Among the oldest stories in our Bessus are those whispered about the Cintuxtoi — the First Ones, the great ones who shaped this realm, Bitus, the living world in which we walk. Their stories are many and varied, carried by wind and stream, in the bones of stones, and in the breath of trees.
We speak here of our world — the living earth, the skies above, the waters that flow. We do not speak of the unknowable Before, the time veiled in silence, when Fire and Water joined and the the First Ones came to be — that primordial mystery from which all came to be. That deeper birth lies hidden, sacred beyond truth telling. What we know, what we live within, is the dance of the Cintuxtoi, the ones who shaped the rhythms of sky and land, the winds and the trees, and the beings who walk between them and after them.
From them arose the Dêuoi, the gods more familiar to us in the cultural, devotional, and ritual world. Each of the Cintuxtoi gives rise to children or emanations — expressions that help bridge the mythic past with the living present. As we move from primordial mystery into lived religion, we find divine forms who guide, protect, and teach us.
Still, for some, it is the Cintuxtoi themselves who call — not through temples or names, but through storm and mountain, mist and flame. Some may feel drawn not to the more culturally shaped Dêuoi, but to these deeper currents of being.
We honor that call.
Faces of the First Ones (Mythic Reflections)
Sonnos the Sun is the spark of growth; warmth that ripens Litauiâ’s bounty. His light does not simply shine — it sings. Some tell that from the heart of Sonnos a god was gifted a part of its fire and brought it into the world — the first flame, from which Aidonâ was born. Others say it was Dêiuos, the sky father, who hurled lightning, striking the Earth and marking places where the sacred would rise. His bolts do not merely burn — they awaken, bringing divine order. In his being are stars, rains, clouds, and storms. From him come the Petuaraueloi (Four Winds) — some say children, some say limbs — each carrying part of his breath. Litauiâ, the Earth‑Mother, brings forth and reclaims. From her belly come forests, rivers, seas, creatures, and kin. Her caves are cradles of life and tombs of rest. Deep crevices, healing springs, flowering meadows — all may be seen as her aspects, or as her children. Lugrâ the Moon watches with a quieter gaze. She turns the tides of time and dream. Her waxing and waning guide our time and our spirits. Then we have the Cauaroi giants and ungods who oppose or test the First Ones, feeding on the sacrificed divine flesh, contending with the shaping of the world. Their challenge keeps creation from stagnation, bringing chaos and disorder.
In versions of our storytelling, the Earth‑Mother is said to take shape as Bouindâ the cow — source of nourishment and substance. Her milk becomes rivers; her body becomes the land; her skull becomes the moon. She gives of herself in a total cosmic sacrifice that births the world. The Sky‑Father is said to take shape as Uindotaruos the bull — powerful, seed‑giving, luminous. In some tellings his head becomes the sun, his bones set as Drus, the World Tree, a cosmic axis reaching between realms.
Some say the union of Litauiâ and Dêiuos brought forth the gods and goddesses we know — the more culturally active faces through which later peoples relate to sky, earth, sea, and everything else.
We must remember: no unified Gaulish Mythology survives. If it had, it likely would have preserved many regional tellings. This is good. It gives us room to listen, to build, to speak in the voices of our lands and houses — creative, but never rootless.
Some will acknowledge these mysteries lightly. Some will weave them into Tegobessus rites. Others will go deep — meditating on Veiled Powers and First Ones. All are welcome. Walk as you are called.
Bessus Nouiogalation 