It's a fantasy role-playing game.

DM: You are Grog Strongjaw, a goliath barbarian . You are the member of the famous group of adventurers. Previously,  Upon returning to the city of Whitestone, they found the rebellion was successful. The undead hordes have fallen to the blades of the surviving rallied warriors of Whitestone.
DM: The crowd look among themselves and one of the lead architects for this whole endeavor nods to you. "Sounds like a fair trade. If you're certain, sir."
Player: I'm a very stringent businessman. Do hurry before I change my mind.
DM: Gold piece is in your hand faster than you have a chance to-- you chip a tooth.
Player: I don't understand this practice. It tastes like shit. Tastes fucking horrible.
DM: Two casks of their precious ale roll up to the base of your foot.
Player: (gasps) Two?!
DM: Two.
Player: One for each arm, eh? All right, the one that I have, I'm not stopping, until it's completely empty. Bring your goblets and cups. It's time to get fucked up.
DM: Fantastic. All right, Vex.
