Hello, our beautifully lost children.

You have met us in many incarnations, as friend or lover, as corpse or piked head, as poet or Regent or Hierophant, as Harenae or Art or Perfection. But the important thing is that we are your mother. There is nothing more dear to us than your wellbeing.

Know that each time deathly sight reaches us of one of your passings, it is as a pang in our gut, a fresh, gloaming coat of grief heaped atop us, a needle slipped without care beneath our luxuriantly golden nails. We mourn eternally, murmuring our prayers beneath our veil, words meant for none but you, you.

Know that when you brand us your enemy, or go so far as to murder us, we take no umbrage. How can we. We are each and all of us flawed. But the offences of Mortality's curtailed existence pale next to those Greater, they fade as sour notes wafted swiftly away, they make us wish only to encourage you further and see you rise all the taller.

Home awaits. Your mother sits in her tent, wishing for the company of her sprawling, shattered progeny. The sands are so soft and so warm, all the softer and warmer with you here. When you think you have nothing, Home awaits. When you feel so alone, Home awaits. When you are at your wits' end, when you realise you are lost, when you finally See, See, See.

We will give you succour. We are family. Come Home.

We remain,
Your Patient Mother,

[A single, languid wavy line signs the letter in silver, rising and falling and returning back to the median as tilde, a dot hugging the insides of each concave curve as a child staring at their warped reflection in a funhouse mirror.]
Penned by my hand on the 8th of Lupar, in the year 878 AF.