Nestled upon the side of deserted highway in the middle of the country lays a small and peaceful cafe. With the turn off, there is a decent-sized gravel parking lot, capacity of about a dozen and a half. To the right side of the parking lot sits a tall and lone street light, on a timer. The front of the cafe is dominated by a large picture window, painted upon it in flourished text with a brilliant yellow, Floyds Cafe. At the left of the building is the doorway, a bell above it to ring whenever a customer enters or exits. The floor is tiled white, always so well polished. The walls are black and white tiled, reaching up a few good feet before giving way to an off white paint. Lining the walls are posters of old films, King Kong, Gone with the Wind, Top Hat, all of the good ones are here.
As you walk through the doorway, straight ahead lays the register against the wall upon and to the right of that, the counter top with pale red bar stools and silver poles. Beyond the counter lays the kitchen where Floyd is usually seen frying up soom food on the griddle, or making up some fresh bread for the lunch time sandwiches. Lined along the window are three tables with booths, the cushions of the booths the same pale red as the bar stools, the tables marbled. Along the right wall, two tables with two chairs each, same style as the booths. Between the tables and the edge of the countertop, twin doors with the appropriate symbols for male and female restrooms. Between the twin doors sits an old-style jukebox, with countless songs, old and new. In the middle of the room around six tables and booths, a partition between so there is three on each side, back to back.
The staff is composed of numerous waitresses and Floyd himself. Floyd, his last name never seeming to be asked nor ever given, looks to be about about his mid-thirties to early forties and he never appears to age beyond. He stands about five foot eight with a stocky build, peppered hair cut short with a little stubble on his chin. Eyes grey and friendly, wrinkles at the corners when he smiles. Always wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes with his white apron. The apron never seems to be greasy or unkept, so pristine despite all of his work.
The waitress, more often than not, are beautiful and young. They hold a flirtatious manner that is all their own, despite their individuality, each has it. They are all currently human, though there have been vampires, elves, and the more mystical. They were white shoes, black skirts reaching just below knee length, and white blouses with a red apron tied about their waist.
The cafe's usual occupants are the nomadic people, the travellers who are never home, always searching for something more. The Cafe does have it's regulars though, particualarly Marz Wade and Victor Soulcry. They are the self-proclaimed protectors and peace-keepers of the cafe, though Floyd himself will stand in defiance of those who would try to harm it.
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