The Journal of Khalid Johnstone – New Arrival
Khalid Johnstone is a recurring character in the Stormhaven Chronicles. He is a brilliant young student from London who has found himself in Stormhaven
“The narrow cobbled street is unfamiliar. You remember stepping out of the Topsy Turvy Pub in London’s Covent Garden and then the feeling of falling through space and now you are here lying in the street like a drunk. But surely you didn’t drink that much and no drink could take you bodily out of London and deposit you in the middle of something that looks like something out of the Middle Ages or Tudor Britain.” Please continue describing the street.
The street is dimly lit by flickering oil lanterns hanging from iron brackets attached to the buildings. The air is thick with the mingled scents of wood smoke, roasting meat, and something more pungent that you can’t quite place. The cobblestones beneath you are uneven, worn smooth by countless feet, and damp from a recent rain. You can hear the faint trickle of water running down a narrow gutter along the edge of the street.
On either side, tall, narrow buildings lean precariously towards each other, their upper stories jutting out over the street. The closest building has walls made of dark timber and white plaster, its crooked windows shuttered against the night. A shop sign sways gently in the cool breeze, its painted words too faded to read clearly. A blacksmith’s forge, further down the street, gives off a dull red glow, and the rhythmic sound of hammer striking metal rings out, echoing faintly in the quiet.
You notice a few shadowy figures moving in the distance, their footsteps quick and purposeful, their cloaks drawn tightly around them. The sky above is a deep velvet, peppered with unfamiliar stars, and the moon hangs low, larger than you’ve ever seen it.
Somewhere nearby, the murmur of conversation drifts toward you, interspersed with laughter and the clinking of glasses. A tavern, perhaps? You struggle to your feet, the cobblestones slick beneath your shoes. The street, though seemingly from another era, feels strangely alive, as if it’s watching, waiting for your next move.
You are drawn by the noises of the nearby tavern. The large arched doorway is open and you walk into a large bar filled with a cacophony of sound, of laughter and folk dressed in robes, smocks, tunics and other styles. They are not speaking in English or any other language you recognise. You feel nauseous, on the edge of panic, when a young woman comes over and says: “Pardon me sir, are you okay?” She is speaking English albeit with an unusual accent. A rush of relief descends on you. “What am I?” you ask. The young woman is particularly beautiful. She is dressed in a brown skirt and apron over a light grey shirt and appears to be a bartender.
The young woman’s brow furrows slightly as she regards you with concern, her eyes soft but searching. Her voice, though gentle, carries an undertone of curiosity. “What are you?” she repeats, her accent lilting in a way that seems both foreign and familiar at once. “Well, you look like someone who’s been caught by the rifts. Happens more often than you’d think in these parts.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying you for a moment before adding, “You’re in the Sleeping Dragon Tavern, sir. In the city of Stormhaven. You might’ve come through one of the portals without meaning to, if I had to guess.” She glances around the crowded room, her gaze briefly scanning the odd assortment of patrons, some deep in conversation, others roaring with laughter, as if this kind of thing happened every day.
You try to focus on her words, but the room feels overwhelming, with its unfamiliar sounds, smells, and strange faces. “Stormhaven?” you murmur, feeling the strangeness of the name on your tongue.
The young woman nods and offers you a reassuring smile. “It’s all right. You’re safe here. My name’s Nathalie,” she says softly. “Why don’t you sit down and have a drink? You look like you’ve been through quite the ordeal.” She gestures toward an empty table in the corner, her voice calm, as though she’s done this before.
Your heart is still racing, but the nausea begins to fade. “But… how did I get here?” you ask, almost to yourself. The last thing you remember was Covent Garden, the Topsy Turvy Pub—how could you possibly be somewhere called Stormhaven?
“Don’t worry,” Nathalie says, her eyes filled with a kind of knowing. “Boz will explain everything. He always does.” She turns slightly, gesturing toward a large, bearded man behind the bar, who appears to be watching you with a faint smile.
“Boz?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Nathalie chuckles softly. “He owns the place. And trust me, he’s seen it all.” She takes a step back, her smile warm and inviting. “Take a seat, sir. You’re not the first traveler to stumble through the rifts, and you won’t be the last.”
Still dazed, you nod and begin to move toward the table, feeling Nathalie’s calm presence at your side. As you sit down, the room’s chaos fades just a little, and for the first time, you feel a sliver of safety in this strange, new world.