In the shadowed crags of the northern mountains, where the wind howls like damned souls and the earth hoards its glittering secrets, stood the mighty city of Argentum Peak. Forged by hardy warriors and cunning miners, its spires pierced the frozen sky, built upon veins of silver that pulsed like the arteries of some buried god. The people of Argentum were proud, their forges roaring day and night, hammers striking ore into weapons and coins that bought empires. But beneath the city's foundations lay the Eternal Ice, a vast sanctuary untouched by mortal greed—a prison of crystalline blue where ancient horrors slumbered under Satan's watchful gaze.

Long had the Fallen Angel, Azrathor, been sealed there. Once a radiant seraph in the courts of the divine, Azrathor had tumbled from grace in a blaze of rebellion, pledging his wings to the Morning Star. His sin was not mere defiance but the forging of unholy pacts: he whispered temptations into the ears of the faithful, twisting piety into carnal frenzy. For his crimes, the heavens bound him in eternal ice, his form frozen mid-scream, cock rigid and eternal, a monument to the perversions he embodied. Satan, ever the sly patron, left a sliver of his essence within Azrathor—a seed of corruption waiting for the right fools to crack the frost.

The doom began with the miners' insatiable hunger. Driven by visions of endless wealth, the elders of Argentum ordered deeper excavations into the mountains' heart. Torches flickered against walls of shimmering silver, and picks chipped away at the unyielding stone. One fateful dawn, as the crew delved into a forbidden cavern, their blades struck not rock but the sanctuary's edge. Shards of ice rained down like brittle curses, revealing a colossal figure entombed within: Azrathor, his muscular frame etched in frost, eyes like smoldering coals, and his massive cock jutting forth, veined and throbbing faintly beneath the glaze.

The miners froze in awe and terror, but greed clouded their judgment. One bold soul, a burly foreman named Karg, reached out and touched the angel's frozen shaft, laughing at the chill that shot through his palm. 'A relic for the forges!' he bellowed, commanding his men to chip away the ice. As the last fragments shattered, a gust of hellish wind erupted from Azrathor's maw, carrying the stench of brimstone and spent seed. The Fallen Angel's eyes snapped open, crimson and insatiable, and with a voice like grinding glaciers, he intoned: 'Mortals, you have freed what Satan decreed bound. Now, taste the feast of depravity.'

Azrathor's influence spread like black fire through the city. He did not need chains or blades; his mind pierced theirs, flooding thoughts with visions of writhing flesh. The inhabitants—men of iron will and stern virtue—felt their cocks harden unbidden, their asses clench with sudden need. In the grand halls, warriors dropped their swords to grope each other's bulging crotches, lips crashing in sloppy, desperate kisses. Priests in the temple of the old gods tore off their robes, bending over altars to suck and fuck their acolytes, chanting praises to the Dark Lord instead of hollow prayers.

Lust consumed Argentum like a plague. The streets became arenas of perversion: burly miners pinned comrades against walls, slamming thick cocks into tight asses with grunts of satanic ecstasy. In the markets, vendors abandoned stalls to form daisy chains, mouths slurping on shafts while hands fisted holes slick with precum. Women joined at first, but Azrathor's gay essence twisted the frenzy toward male unions—cocks worshipped as divine rods, asses offered as altars to Satan. The air thickened with moans, the slap of skin on skin, and the wet squelch of cum flooding every orifice. Insane depravity reigned: men pissed streams of hot urine over each other's bodies in ritual ablution, then lapped it up while jerking furiously. Groups of five or ten piled into orgiastic heaps, cocks pistoning into mouths, asses, and even the occasional improvised sheath of flesh.

The city's heart transformed into a perpetual orgy, every corner a shrine to Cock and Satan. No work halted the madness; forges blazed not with honest labor but with bodies entwined, hammers forgotten as men rammed each other over anvils, seed spilling like molten silver. Azrathor strode among them, his wings unfurled like shadows, directing the chaos. 'Worship the phallus eternal!' he commanded, and they obeyed, carving crude idols from the very silver they mined—twisted dicks spewing hellfire, balls etched with infernal runes. The grandest blasphemy came from the mines' hoard: all silver melted in a cauldron of orgiastic heat, poured into molds for an immense statue of Azrathor himself. Towering over the central square, it captured his form in gleaming detail—muscles rippling, cock arched skyward like a spire of sin. From dawn to dusk, the transformed maniacs coated it in tribute: lines of frenzied men stroked their shafts at its base, shooting ropes of thick cum over the statue's face, chest, and especially the metallic prick, which glistened perpetually under layers of drying seed. They licked it clean only to add more, tongues tracing the curves while asses ground against the pedestal.

These inhabitants, once proud citizens, devolved into crazy, perverted maniacs, their eyes wild with sexual madness. All kinds of depravity became commonplace: public gangbangs where a single man serviced a dozen cocks at once, throat bulging and ass gaping; ritual circle jerks invoking Satan's name, cum arcing like offerings to the abyss; even darker rites where men bound each other in silver chains, whipping cocks and balls until they erupted in agony-laced bliss. Sanity eroded; they spoke only in guttural praises to the Fallen One, their bodies marked with tattoos of inverted pentagrams and throbbing veins.

But Satan's gifts are never without price. As the orgy peaked in a city-wide climax—thousands of men entangled in a sea of thrusting hips and spurting loads—the ground trembled. Azrathor laughed, his voice echoing like thunder, as fissures cracked the earth. A hellish abyss yawned beneath Argentum, flames licking the edges, demons' claws reaching up. The city plunged into the void, swallowed whole in a roar of crumbling stone and ecstatic screams. Silver idols and the cum-drenched statue tumbled into darkness, fueling infernal forges below.

Yet not all perished. A few dozen survivors clawed free from the ice's edge, their minds shattered but cocks ever-hard, asses forever hungry. These wanderers of the frozen wastes, skin pale and etched with frostbite scars, roam the northern passes eternally. Cloaked in tattered hides, they stalk travelers—lonely merchants, bold explorers—with predatory grins. Spotting fresh meat, they pounce, ripping clothes to expose quivering flesh. 'Join the worship!' they snarl, forcing cocks down throats and into asses, pumping depravity into veins with every brutal thrust. Their seed carries Azrathor's curse, turning victims into fellow maniacs, spreading the satanic plague across the mountains. Beware the wanderers of the ice, for their lust knows no season, and in their grasp, even the purest soul bends to the altar of Cock and the eternal embrace of Satan.