Ilium, City of the Night

Step through the gates where the cobblestones shine. In the golden glow of the

Ilium light. Where the blacksmith, Hollowine Hamond is found. Beating the iron

with a rhythmic sound. He doesn't make swords for a soldier's crusade.

But iron-willed locks for the doors he has made. And Sylas the weaver with fingers

so thin. Knits shrouds for the secrets we keep deep within. Oh,

Ilium, Ilium, city of the night. Where the baker

and butcher are twins, so I'm told. From the sewers to the spires,

the glam and the gloom. We all bow our heads at the Grand Phaluom.