Three years was neither long nor short, and the same was true in the Abyss. Demons had no natural lifespan; they did not die of old age. Many demon lords had lived even longer than the world of Toril itself—for example, those Obyrith demons. When they were born, Toril did not even exist. Yet three years was not short either, even in the Abyss. The Abyss was a world of constant change, where anything could happen, especially to demons.
Demons might have long lives, but their average life expectancy was tragically low. Counting from birth, any demon that lived past three years could absolutely be considered long-lived! This was especially true for low-ranking demons. The moment they were born, they began a brutal competition, constantly killing or being killed.
Thus, demons had an extremely muddled sense of time. They lived for the moment, yet scorned time itself. They cared about every second, but had no concept whatsoever of anything longer than a year.
Three years was enough for generation after generation of dretches to be replaced, yet for many demon lords, it was no more than a nap.
For Solam, those three years had also been peculiar. They were neither long nor short, yet they wore on him. He longed to return to Faerûn. He missed home. Though he was not entirely sure where home was—Avalon? Ocasuan? Calimshan? Athkatla? Or Silverymoon?
But he wanted to go back. Even Solam himself did not know where this attachment came from.
The Abyss was interesting—truly. That was Solam's honest opinion. The scenery was terrible, the environment even worse, and slaughter and war took place every moment. There were no rules here, no morality. But it was exciting!
Solam was not someone who could sit still. He liked seeing all kinds of sights, whether