It was understandable that Geralt wanted to blow off some steam. A battle, a false accusation of murder, a stretch of imprisonment followed by the obligatory daring escape, a boat trip, and an attempt on your life would make even the most mild-mannered monster hunting mutant a bit tetchy. Especially the boat trip.
The options for stress relief presented by the backwater swamp town in which he found himself were few and far between. Possibly a light spot of sweating your arse off, perhaps getting eaten by the monstrous inhabitants of the nearby woods. So, in the time honoured soldiering tradition, Geralt settled for getting absolutely stinking drunk with some mates.
The next morning, waking up with a thumping headache and not much else, he regretted that choice. He dragged his bare feet back up the muddy road to the tavern to try and discover what happened to his clothes and his dignity, and why in the hell his neck hurt so much. He staggered through the door and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. His eyes were dull and sunken, his skin grey and sallow, and there was a strange marking on his neck.
“I got a neck tattoo?” he groaned.
That’s a minor, jokey sidequest from the second Witcher game, a series in which you pilot jobbing albino monster hunter and general handyman Geralt through a series of forgettable names. And, a couple of hours into my playthrough of the third instalment, it’s the best moment in the Witcher 3 as well.