It's a Loredas night like every other Loredas night since I've come to Skyrim, which means that I'm standing back-to-back with my shield-brother, Farkas, down in the depths of some long-dead hero's tomb where we've come looking for some mythical artifact, facing down a ridiculous horde of undead. Like everything else that's happened since I was nearly beheaded thanks to a bureaucratic error on the part of the Imperium, I haven't questioned it much. But as I yank my sword out of the guts of what must be the hundredth draugr of the night and kick its dessicated body down the stairs, I wonder how this became my life.
"How come every weekend, we end up grave-robbing and brawling with undead?" Another draugr comes lurching at me out of the darkness, beating its sword against its shield and slobbering. Of course, my bound sword chooses this moment to wink out of existence, leaving me cursing and brandishing a fistful of nothing. Farkas swings round and knocks the thing back with a blow from his two-handed sword, and I resummon my conjured blade just in time to parry the return stroke from its war axe.
When that foe is safely despatched, Farkas answers. "In case you hadn't noticed there's not a lot of nightlife around Whiterun."
From the other end of the room, I hear the sounds of stone sarcophagi sliding open and the barking grunts of draugr as they scent prey. There's plenty of night life around here.
"Couldn't we just go down to The Bannered Mare and start a brawl or something?" I smack the next draugr I see with a flame spell, and he lights up like a torch, clearly illuminating three more behind him. Joy.
Farkas laughs. "No one there will fight with me anymore. And if they have any sense, they won't fight with you either."
The draugr charge, and we brace ourselves to meet them. There are worse ways to spend a Loredas night, I guess.