They would drive their ships upon our shore and find waiting no blade or bludgeon. The clash of steel and pounding armor is absent, replaced by the whisper of wind through wild grasses. On the plain beyond the shore, a spotted pattern of white on green, like light catching facets of an emerald. But these flickers of light are human, all of them, a hundred thousand of them.

This is the kneeling army.

They would leave their ships with wary confidence to face the unnarmed mass, all of them with eyes closed and palms upturned and every chest rising and falling in time to something none of these invaders hear.

No sound but their own shuffling. No relief from their own staring. 

He is cocky and leaves his brothers to strike down the nearest white-robed figure. She is young and freckle-faced and motionless and silent. Sword draws back, aiming for the neck.

The sword stops, soundlessly, on a ripple in the air. The warrior grunts into the silence, like that will help him, and presses the sword against nothing. Pulling it back results only in his fingers slipping free.