I’m kinda sick of walking around Witcher 3’s world looking like Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. I’m supposed to be a gruff and grizzled monster hunter, living in a filthy world and at the bottom of the social hierarchy, dishing out menacing threats in a monotone voice, yet I’m dressed in pristine baby blue prince pyjamas because they happen to be the strongest clothes I’ve come across so far. Let me cut & paste the stats from these Pierrot cumrags into a butcher’s apron or something. And let me do it freely, with no in-game wank about having to visit a special magic tailor in the bumhole of nowhere, and with no restrictions on how often I can do it.

Fuckin’ 17th century unsuccessful baroque composer lookin’ ass. If someone came up to me dressed like my Witcher character, and challenged me to a fight to the death, I’d take the challenge because I know that no just universe or god would allow any harm to come to me from a person wearing that outfit. They could thrust an obsidian-tipped spear directly into my belly, and it’d harmlessly curve around me like a snake climbing a banana tree. The sacred blood of Christ would not allow for even a mild abrasion to befall me by the lace-gloved hand of a ballet theatre’s chief bathroom attendant.