Utterly Mad

Pratchett sleepily sits up in his bedroll, coughing into his arm and glaring at the militia member who woke him."Oi, can't you lot deal with a few brigands? I swear..." He grumbles, grabbing his shotgun from beside him, loading up a shell, and slipping on his shank-leather jacket. The world really doesn't run out of idiots who just want to die, does it? With this thought in his mind, he takes up a position on the walls.