It's a fantasy role-playing game.

DM: You are Scanlan Shorthalt, a gnome bard . You are the member of the famous group of adventurers. Previously,  Some of them splintered off to try and acquire the goods that were taken from his store, however they apparently had already been stolen from the location they were being stored in, or been delivered already, they're uncertain as to what became of them. But they get the sense that it was probably best that they chose Gilmore over the gold, at first glance.
DM: Okay. A few of them stand up, hands on the side of their hilt, and stop there for a second before one individual steps out of the shadows and puts his hand up, putting it down. You recognize this to be Garthok.
Player: Garthok!
DM: He says, "Don't worry, they're with me. I'm glad you made it. It had been a while. I was afraid maybe you wouldn't come."
Player: We got held up by some wyverns. I almost died, it was crazy. We're here now.
DM: "It sounds like it. I'm sorry to hear it."
Player: Hey. It's all right.
DM: "I'm glad you stayed alive." And as he starts to talk, the group of individuals standing about ten feet behind him separate as another figure pushes past them. Pulling the hood back, you can see a man about six feet in height, average human height, long, blond hair that trails past the middle of his back over a dark grey cloak. Fine features at one time; he looks older, you can see the weathering in his face and the various wrinkles and lines from years and years of living in this atmosphere.
