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Oskorei
Saturday, August 27th, 2005, 05:07 PM
During the Medieval period, Demonology was practiced by daring, curious, and insane magicians (for a good introduction to the philosophy behind Demonology, and its similarities to certain Eastern philosophies, see the book Pacts with the Devil by Hyatt and Black. Strongly recommended).

Books called Grimoires were used, and now some of those have found their way online:

The Key of Solomon
http://www.esotericarchives.com/solomon/ksol.htm

The Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage
http://www.esotericarchives.com/abramelin/abramelin.htm

Ars Notoria
http://www.esotericarchives.com/notoria/notoria.htm

It is implicit that caution is needed if one intends to dabble in the occult.

Gorm the Old
Sunday, August 28th, 2005, 08:33 PM
The fact that the texts of all surviving grimoires are extremely corrupt further increases the need for caution cited by Oskorei.

Son of Thunor
Thursday, May 22nd, 2008, 09:24 AM
I was looking in to I just want to know anybody in the althing world believe in Demonology and Demon hunting and when I say demon hunting I mean this prove they are real I have study The legends of some but not all of them. One I say Demons I mean like the crossroad's etc

here are some of the one's I know

1.A hellhound is a demonic dog of Hell, found in mythology, folklore and fiction. Hellhounds typically have features such as an unnaturally large size, a black fur color, glowing eyes, super strength or speed, ghostly or phantom characteristics, and sometimes even the ability to talk. They are often assigned to guard the entrance to the world of the dead or undertake other duties related to the afterlife or the supernatural, such as hunting down lost souls or guarding a supernatural treasure.

There are manly more I will have to learn

Oswiu
Thursday, May 22nd, 2008, 10:55 AM
1.A hellhound is a demonic dog of Hell, found in mythology, folklore and fiction. Hellhounds typically have features such as an unnaturally large size, a black fur color, glowing eyes, super strength or speed, ghostly or phantom characteristics, and sometimes even the ability to talk. They are often assigned to guard the entrance to the world of the dead or undertake other duties related to the afterlife or the supernatural, such as hunting down lost souls or guarding a supernatural treasure.

The description matches the Black Dogs of Lancashire folklore. The West Country of Devon and Cornwall and thereabouts has the same legend. It's a bit melodramatic to go attaching terms like 'hellhound' to them, though. It's not authentic to the folklore, and gives the apparition an unnecessary malignant shade. They have been known to protect lone female travellers, you see.

Son of Thunor
Thursday, May 22nd, 2008, 11:27 AM
The description matches the Black Dogs of Lancashire folklore. The West Country of Devon and Cornwall and thereabouts has the same legend. It's a bit melodramatic to go attaching terms like 'hellhound' to them, though. It's not authentic to the folklore, and gives the apparition an unnecessary malignant shade. They have been known to protect lone female travellers, you see.See I did not know that the reason we call them hellhounds well Because there is story be hide that:



Meeting with the Devil at the Crossroads

A "vision", as told by Henry Goodman


Robert Johnson been playing down in Yazoo City and over at Beulah trying to get back up to Helena, ride left him out on a road next to the levee, walking up the highway, guitar in his hand propped up on his shoulder. October cool night, full moon filling up the dark sky, Robert Johnson thinking about Son House preaching to him, "Put that guitar down, boy, you drivin' people nuts." Robert Johnson needing as always a woman and some whiskey. Big trees all around, dark and lonesome road, a crazed, poisoned dog howling and moaning in a ditch alongside the road sending electrified chills up and down Robert Johnson's spine, coming up on a crossroads just south of Rosedale. Robert Johnson, feeling bad and lonesome, knows people up the highway in Gunnison. Can get a drink of whiskey and more up there. Man sitting off to the side of the road on a log at the crossroads says, "You're late, Robert Johnson." Robert Johnson drops to his knees and says, "Maybe not."

The man stands up, tall, barrel-chested, and black as the forever-closed eyes of Robert Johnson's stillborn baby, and walks out to the middle of the crossroads where Robert Johnson kneels. He says, "Stand up, Robert Johnson. You want to throw that guitar over there in that ditch with that hairless dog and go on back up to Robinsonville and play the harp with Willie Brown and Son, because you just another guitar player like all the rest, or you want to play that guitar like nobody ever played it before? Make a sound nobody ever heard before? You want to be the King of the Delta Blues and have all the whiskey and women you want?"

"That's a lot of whiskey and women, Devil-Man."

"I know you, Robert Johnson," says the man.

Robert Johnson, feels the moonlight bearing down on his head and the back of his neck as the moon seems to be growing bigger and bigger and brighter and brighter. He feels it like the heat of the noonday sun bearing down, and the howling and moaning of the dog in the ditch penetrates his soul, coming up through his feet and the tips of his fingers through his legs and arms, settling in that big empty place beneath his breastbone causing him to shake and shudder like a man with the palsy. Robert Johnson says, "That dog gone mad."

The man laughs. "That hound belong to me. He ain't mad, he's got the Blues. I got his soul in my hand."

The dog lets out a low, long soulful moan, a howling like never heard before, rhythmic, syncopated grunts, yelps, and barks, seizing Robert Johnson like a Grand Mal, and causing the strings on his guitar to vibrate, hum, and sing with a sound dark and blue, beautiful, soulful chords and notes possessing Robert Johnson, taking him over, spinning him around, losing him inside of his own self, wasting him, lifting him up into the sky. Robert Johnson looks over in the ditch and sees the eyes of the dog reflecting the bright moonlight or, more likely so it seems to Robert Johnson, glowing on their own, a deep violet penetrating glow, and Robert Johnson knows and feels that he is staring into the eyes of a Hellhound as his body shudders from head to toe.

The man says, "The dog ain't for sale, Robert Johnson, but the sound can be yours. That's the sound of the Delta Blues."

"I got to have that sound, Devil-Man. That sound is mine. Where do I sign?"

The man says, "You ain't got a pencil, Robert Johnson. Your word is good enough. All you got to do is keep walking north. But you better be prepared. There are consequences."

"Prepared for what, Devil-man?"

"You know where you are, Robert Johnson? You are standing in the middle of the crossroads. At midnight, that full moon is right over your head. You take one more step, you'll be in Rosedale. You take this road to the east, you'll get back over to Highway 61 in Cleveland, or you can turn around and go back down to Beulah or just go to the west and sit up on the levee and look at the River. But if you take one more step in the direction you're headed, you going to be in Rosedale at midnight under this full October moon, and you are going to have the Blues like never known to this world. My left hand will be forever wrapped around your soul, and your music will possess all who hear it. That's what's going to happen. That's what you better be prepared for. Your soul will belong to me. This is not just any crossroads. I put this "X" here for a reason, and I been waiting on you."

Robert Johnson rolls his head around, his eyes upwards in their sockets to stare at the blinding light of the moon which has now completely filled tie pitch-black Delta night, piercing his right eye like a bolt of lightning as the midnight hour hits. He looks the big man squarely in the eyes and says, "Step back, Devil-Man, I'm going to Rosedale. I am the Blues."

The man moves to one side and says, "Go on, Robert Johnson. You the King of the Delta Blues. Go on home to Rosedale. And when you get on up in town, you get you a plate of hot tamales because you going to be needing something on your stomach where you're headed."