Head ripped off

Your vision is fading fast. But before it goes entirely, you see one last vision as you gaze involuntarily up the steps of the dais. Ragnar is standing shakily on the ruin of the Prophet, with a ghastly rent in his chest. He is swaying, barely keeping his feet beneath him. In one hand, he holds aloft the head of Ghazghkull Thraka. And before the green rises up from the black to take you, you see that your master’s tusks are set in a great, triumphant grin, and you know that all will be well.
...
	So this is death, is it? I’ve had worse.
I need not die. Not if I do not will it. My enemies did not die when I took their heads. Nor when I took them again. Not because they were tough. Because you did not will it. Because I did not will it.
Now, I wish for death. If I did not, I would not bear this wound.

Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the WAAAGH!