The Quarren bohemian known amongst the citizenry of Celeste as the ‘Drowned Poet’ is a stubborn limpet upon the underwater city’s cultural scene, carrying on dauntlessly despite the ever changing currents of modern trends. His briny rhymes seek out the undertow of the organic condition, echoing of primal truths that pierce the fog of modernity like a lighthouse’s beam.

No one knows from where he first landed upon Selen’s shores, though there are some records of his first verses making waves in Estle before his appearance in Celeste. Although looking like jetsam in his spraybeaten top hat and barnacled beard, his voice still carries over froth and storm when he recites in squares and street corners his latest stanzas.

This much maligned loose cannon has often been courted by artists who’d wish to make more of his poetry, but whenever commercial success looms in the horizon his inspiration is down in the doldrums. It is only when awash with grog, between wind and water, that he can find his bearing and create the painful beauty that has earned him such admiration. Sailing the unfathomable depths of the organic psyche, buoyed by a deep passion for life in all its forms, is the only way he knows to make his art. It is for this reason, or perhaps his propensity to wind up passed out in puddles of various ilk, that he’s earned the moniker ‘the Drowned Poet’.

As smooth as coarse salt, and as pliant as a ship’s keel, his grating presence is tolerated by the general populace only in measured quanta. High society admires his work, some more begrudgingly than others, while his true friends are amongst the bohemians, the slumming artists, and other reprobates. With them, or others he views to be true and wear no false beakheads, will he discourse with honesty and offer a share of salty wisdom that he’s dredged from the deeps. Those closest to him can tell that a great grief hangs upon, anchoring him to the murk of the sea. In his amber eyes still glow the celestial brilliance his heart once had, though much of it he’s spilled upon paper with his own ink. Only in hushed whispers do some voices wonder, what will happen when that ink runs dry.