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Ryll (r-IIL) n. American Mythology
The third god of the Litvian pantheon, god of sexuality, fertility, and father of erotic misconduct.
Litvia was thought to be an ancient colony located in Maine. If true, it would be the oldest colony ever recorded in North America. However, no hard evidence has ever been uncovered, and all that remains of this supposed lost culture are stories told by Native American tribes.
The culture is thought to have been eradicated by disease or malnutrition, if it did indeed ever exist. -excerpt from "Lost Legends of North America" by Martha Gladstone (Red Roof Publishing, 2001)
Ryll sat in the dark, his once promising throne room faded and all but forgotten. He stared into a silvered pond at his feet, looking at all his 'domain' and followers. A coffee shop barista, a desperate writer still hopeful to keep his annoying boyfriend, a plump crone with a shrine to every god she could name and three cats for each godly statue in her home. Ryll scowled, rubbing his eyes.
His followers were fading, and he'd not had a true prayer or offering in nearly one entire year. For gods, this was quite troublesome, even dangerous. A lack of prayers meant loneliness, a lack of offerings meant he grew weaker each day, and a lack of followers meant he would fade from existence entirely, the way of all forgotten gods.
But how could he make anyone believe in him with but one small shrine made by a long-dead artist, no churches, and little power to affect the material plane? If he had but one true follower, maybe two or three, and a proper offering, anything at all would do so long as it was done with true devotion, he would have all he needed to emerge once again.
Ryll looked around the room at the sullen statues of his fellow gods, the lost pantheon of Litvia. All forgotten, all dead. Only he remained, and only then because of local legend, passed from generation to generation, highschool students desperate to find love, bear a child, or be ravaged, and the occasional middle-aged woman seeking out old cultures in the hope of finding a mate or rekindling lost love.
Ryll waved his hand, the shimmering puddle beneath him fogging and clearing in a blink, revealing his one remaining Shrine.
In a brilliant autumn woods, deep in the heart of rural Maine, was a small clearing, no more than thirty feet across. It was overgrown and ill-kept, some would even call it 'spooky,' but there was one thing of beauty: a statue. The statue was of a tall man, over six and a half feet tall, carved from polished white marble and inlaid with gold. The statue was beautiful, his face feminine but proud, his long hair braided down past his shoulders. He was muscular and strong of stature, holding a hand aloft to heaven. His bare torso was strong, the smooth lines of his muscles leading downward to his claim to fame.
Ryll's statue and sole remaining place of worship was famous, primarily, for its amazing penis. Fourteen inches long, slightly curved up and nearly twice the thickness of a mortal man, it stood as a testament of phallic beauty.
On several occasions in years passed, a timid, lone maiden would approach, gape at him, flustered, and then timidly kiss his tip or give a single slow stroke, but such an action was not enough to give him what he needed. Ryll would need devotion to awake, for the legend told in the nearby town of Rushing Creek was true: 'If a maiden finds the statue of Ryll and pleasures it well enough, her sexual desires will come true."
The third god of the Litvian pantheon, god of sexuality, fertility, and father of erotic misconduct.
Litvia was thought to be an ancient colony located in Maine. If true, it would be the oldest colony ever recorded in North America. However, no hard evidence has ever been uncovered, and all that remains of this supposed lost culture are stories told by Native American tribes.
The culture is thought to have been eradicated by disease or malnutrition, if it did indeed ever exist. -excerpt from "Lost Legends of North America" by Martha Gladstone (Red Roof Publishing, 2001)
Ryll sat in the dark, his once promising throne room faded and all but forgotten. He stared into a silvered pond at his feet, looking at all his 'domain' and followers. A coffee shop barista, a desperate writer still hopeful to keep his annoying boyfriend, a plump crone with a shrine to every god she could name and three cats for each godly statue in her home. Ryll scowled, rubbing his eyes.
His followers were fading, and he'd not had a true prayer or offering in nearly one entire year. For gods, this was quite troublesome, even dangerous. A lack of prayers meant loneliness, a lack of offerings meant he grew weaker each day, and a lack of followers meant he would fade from existence entirely, the way of all forgotten gods.
But how could he make anyone believe in him with but one small shrine made by a long-dead artist, no churches, and little power to affect the material plane? If he had but one true follower, maybe two or three, and a proper offering, anything at all would do so long as it was done with true devotion, he would have all he needed to emerge once again.
Ryll looked around the room at the sullen statues of his fellow gods, the lost pantheon of Litvia. All forgotten, all dead. Only he remained, and only then because of local legend, passed from generation to generation, highschool students desperate to find love, bear a child, or be ravaged, and the occasional middle-aged woman seeking out old cultures in the hope of finding a mate or rekindling lost love.
Ryll waved his hand, the shimmering puddle beneath him fogging and clearing in a blink, revealing his one remaining Shrine.
In a brilliant autumn woods, deep in the heart of rural Maine, was a small clearing, no more than thirty feet across. It was overgrown and ill-kept, some would even call it 'spooky,' but there was one thing of beauty: a statue. The statue was of a tall man, over six and a half feet tall, carved from polished white marble and inlaid with gold. The statue was beautiful, his face feminine but proud, his long hair braided down past his shoulders. He was muscular and strong of stature, holding a hand aloft to heaven. His bare torso was strong, the smooth lines of his muscles leading downward to his claim to fame.
Ryll's statue and sole remaining place of worship was famous, primarily, for its amazing penis. Fourteen inches long, slightly curved up and nearly twice the thickness of a mortal man, it stood as a testament of phallic beauty.
On several occasions in years passed, a timid, lone maiden would approach, gape at him, flustered, and then timidly kiss his tip or give a single slow stroke, but such an action was not enough to give him what he needed. Ryll would need devotion to awake, for the legend told in the nearby town of Rushing Creek was true: 'If a maiden finds the statue of Ryll and pleasures it well enough, her sexual desires will come true."