The<em>Bacio l'ubriaco</em>was, by far, the nicest building on the street.  Not that competition was stiff; indeed, quite the opposite.  This close to the docks, with the scent of the sea fresh in the air, sometimes cleansing, sometimes stinking of fish, most bars in the area catered to sailors, and sailor's needs.  The closest neighbor to the<em>Bacio l'ubriaco</em>was an seedy looking apothecary's shop, known to specialize in diseases of the intimate variety, inasmuch as it cured anything at all.  Just down the street, another bar could be seen, usually filled with sailors.  Wreckage and vomit filled the street in front of it, and one of the windows had been broken since before living memory could trace the event.  As for the<em>Bacio l'ubriaco</em>, though, it was cleaner, nicer, freshly painted, like a noble standing in the midst of the lower classes.  To be sure, there was still something of the seedy about it, it's dark paint just a little too glossy, almost suspiciously sleek.  Nevertheless, it spoke of containing a higher class of clientele than could normally be found that particular area of Amozare.  For this reason, it was notable.<br/><br/>To the young women (but of course, casual observers would not mark the pair as such), Iolanda and Rachelle, it was notable for another reason.  It was the last place Isabella had been seen before she was taken, just three nights ago.<br/><br/>Pushing the brass-bound door open, the ladies come in, out of the cold.  Inside, the bar seems to have a mix of public space and privacy, as though not quite certain what sort of establishment it wants to be.  There are booths, but exposed, allowing only the barest of privacy, into which anyone can intrude.  The ladies, too, of which a small number sit and wait, seem to straddle a line between streetwalker and well-taught courtesan, beautiful, but with just an edge of the lower class.  They shoot the disguised Rachelle a speculative look, right before giving Iolanda a slightly dirty one.  The room is only somewhat busy, with a bartender tending bar (as bartenders tend to do), a few servers moving about, easily signaled, and a smattering of patrons, talking in low voices.  Heads turn slightly as the pair walk by, a few pairs of eyes can be felt lingering, slightly unpleasantly.  One, obviously Vesten by his size and blond braids, shoots the pair an open smile before turning back to his drink.  Off to the rear of the room is a pair of doors, unobtrusive, barely visible in the dim corner of the room.