As Spensir walks, something strange happens around the battlefield. Though it could simply be tricks of the light, considering it's so difficult to see with the rain and the lightning and the fighting, but...no, they're there. Whether they're real is another question. Translucent, ghostly images, their form more impression than picture, fade into existence around the battlefield, so subtlety one might not even notice. Soldiers and kings, commoners and nobles, hunters and craftsmen, priests and thieves, men and women, the elderly and children, all seem so...alive, despite their wispy forms. And as Spensir nears them, they seem to gain strength and physicality, rising from their positions or breaking off from silent conversations, noticing him and joining in behind. Spensir himself seems to grow...more...real, somehow. As if he was growing closer to the definite than anything not already there could aspire to be, going beyond the illusions of the merely physical and causing even the ground to seem fake and artificial as he walked on it, the clouds mere figments of the imagination compared to his actuality. And as the host of warriors behind him grows, taking up arms as they walk, silent and determined in their march, the armor glows ever brighter, the light it gives off somehow becoming permanent, a glow that remains in the air long after he has passed.
Once he stands on the edge of the true fighting, he stops moving, as does the army at his back. The other figures scattered around the battlefield stand, or grow into becoming more true, just as he had, and multiply, clusters of them scattered into wisps of light by a stray blow as one warrior in the continuing battle misses another, reforming slowly back into what they had been. He lifts his sword into the air above his head, and countless thousands of ghostly figures draw their blades in a silent acknowledgement. They were eerily realistic; their movements were not synchronized, they were not perfect, and yet...they were so unreal looking, on the surface. Practically faceless, yet the mind's eye was able to fill in each one, easily, and know it to be true and unique to that individual.
He lets it drop, and they rush forward, sound suddenly accompanying them as ancient power, the power that kings once wielded, fills the air, and Spensir joins them, rushing forward towards one of the void beings, a shining beacon among the sea of chaos.
Thus always began, the Grand Crusade.