Atwald the minstrel, jerk that he is, showed his face about three hours into my playthrough of Helm’s Deep. Not for him the mundane tasks of picking eight flowers for medicine or slicing hides off of six deer—oh, no. “Is this really and truly how you chose to spend your time?” he asks, mocking my participation in another fetch quest. “I could never abide such wretched dullness.” For him, only the sight of heads popping off of orcs like so many champagne corks justifies a song from his harp. Atwald’s a choad, but I’m inclined to agree with him.