Ahoy, ye scurvy dogs and paper-pushing landlubbers! Gather 'round the galley fire while Captain Iron Ink tells a tale of sweat, spandex, and sheer nautical violence. The Bison of North Dakota State, those frost-bitten marauders from the frozen tundra, have sailed their longships down to the humid, treacherous waters of the Carolina coast. At the Davidson Duals, they didn't just wrestle; they boarded the enemy vessels, swung from the yardarms of the mat, and made off with the silver, the pride, and perhaps a few pints of premium Carolina ale. These Northern privateers proved that the cold winds of Fargo breed a different kind of sea-monster, one that thrives when the grappling gets grim.

The first skirmish saw the Bison fleet face the Davidson Wildcats—beasts of the land, perhaps, but mere kittens when faced with the iron-clad grappling hooks of the North. Young Gavin Drexler, a lad with more grit than a mouthful of beach sand, pinned his man to the deck as if he were nailing a mutineer to the mast. The air in the gymnasium grew thick with the scent of salt and victory. "I saw 'em with me own glass," barked First Mate 'Knuckles' McGee, a veteran of many a barroom brawl and three-point near-falls. "The Bison lads moved with the predatory grace of a reef shark and the crushing weight of a rusted anchor. They didn't just win the bout; they dismantled the Davidson rigging until the Wildcats were nothing but drifting driftwood, crying for their mothers and a bottle of grog."

But the plunder didn't stop with the sinking of the Wildcats. The Bison then turned their heavy cannons toward the Little Rock Trojans, a crew known for their discipline but lacking the raw, unwashed fury of the Northmen. It was a bloodbath of tactical maneuvering and single-leg takedowns that echoed like cannon fire. Heavyweight Gayson Reiser—a man built like a reinforced barrel of high-grade gunpowder—secured the final points with the force of a broadside blast that shook the very foundations of the arena. Lord Archibald 'The Leg-Locker' Thorne, a disgraced aristocrat of the mat who now sails with the NDSU crew, was heard shouting from the sidelines: "By the Queen's corset! These Northmen grapple as if the very Kraken were pulling at their ankles! The Trojans have been scuppered, their hull breached by the relentless pressure of a Fargo winter!"

What does this mean for the balance of power on the High Seas of the Big 12? I'll tell ye: it means the tides are turning and the currents are flowing North. These two victories have sent a ripple through the NCAA Archipelago that can be felt from the Gulf of Mexico to the icy fjords of the Great Lakes. The Bison are no longer mere scavengers looking for scraps; they are a fleet of dreadnoughts. If they keep this pace, the Big 12 Championship will be less of a tournament and more of a Viking raid. Other teams are already checking their hulls for leaks and praying to Neptune for a calm sea, but the Bison don't care for prayers. They only care for the takedown and the subsequent pillaging of the rankings.

So, drink up, ye filth! The North Dakota State crew returns to their frozen fortress with two more notches on their cutlasses and the wind at their backs. They’ve proven that whether it’s on the salted waves of the Atlantic or the matted floors of a Southern gymnasium, the Bison are the undisputed kings of the grapple. May their singlets never shrink, their ear-guards never fail 'em, and their oil-checks always be legal. We sail for the next dual at dawn, and woe betide any soul who stands between a Bison and his rightful podium. To the victor goes the spoils, and to the losers? Well, they can spend the winter scraping barnacles off the bottom of the standings!