Avast, ye scurvy dogs and armchair admirals! Gather ’round the grog tub as Captain Iron Ink dips his quill into the salty brine to recount a clash so fierce it threatens to tip the very scales of the AFC trade routes. This coming Lord’s Day, the High-Altitude Fort of Denver shall find itself under siege by none other than the Blue-Billed Buccaneers of Buffalo. Led by the great bearded Leviathan himself, Josh of the Allen, these northern raiders are sailing their frigates over the plains to do battle in the Divisional Round. The stakes? Naught less than a chance to seize the AFC Crown and send their rivals to a watery grave in the depths of the off-season.

I spoke with me first mate, Scurvy Sam, who spent the better part of the morning staring at the betting charts through a cracked spyglass. 'Captain,' he croaked, 'the air up in the Denver harbor is so thin a man can’t even whistle for a wench without losing his lungs! Those Buffalo boys are used to the freezing spray of the Great Lakes, but can they breathe when the mountain spirits start clawing at their chests?' ’Tis a fair question, for the Denver Mountain-Brigands, led by their fresh-faced Captain Bo Nix—a lad who navigates the pocket like a shark in a coral reef—have turned their high-altitude outpost into a veritble deathtrap for visiting vessels. The Broncos’ defense, a pack of iron-clad sentries led by the dreaded Patrick Surtain, has spent the fortnight sharpening their cutlasses, ready to intercept any cannonball Josh Allen dares to hurl into the thin air.

Lord Goodell of the High Gridiron Office has already signaled that this skirmish will dictate the price of rum and doubloons across the seven divisions. Should Buffalo triumph, the northern ice-wastes will celebrate with a riot of broken tables and spilled ale that could trigger a tsunami in the Atlantic. However, should the Denver Privateers hold their fort, the mountain folk shall surely grow so arrogant that they’ll start charging a tax on every gust of wind blowing east. I overheard a wealthy spice merchant, the Honorable Lord Elway of the Orange Cape, whispering in the shadows of the docks: 'If the lad Josh Allen isn't shackled by the first quarter, he’ll run over our line like a rogue wave through a rowboat. We need the mountain spirits to howl louder than the Bills Mafia!'

The consequences of this boarding action are dire, me hearties. The winner moves one step closer to the Super Bowl Galleon, while the loser shall be keelhauled by their own local broadsheets and forced to dwell in the bilge-water of 'What Might Have Been.' The high seas of the AFC have not seen such a concentration of firepower since the great Manning-Brady wars of the old era. Every cannon on the Denver ramparts is primed, and every Buffalo sail is unfurled. If Allen finds his rhythm, he’ll be tossing deep balls like they were gold coins at a victory parade, but if the Broncos’ pass-rush can breach the Bills' hull, we’ll see a shipwreck of epic proportions.

So, batten down the hatches and hide your treasure, for the Divisional Round is no place for the faint of heart. Whether ye sail with the stampeding Buffalo or ride with the mountain-dwelling Horses, know this: by the time the sun sets over the Rockies, the turf will be stained with the sweat of giants and the tears of the conquered. May the winds be at your back, and may your parlay cards stay dry, for the Great Leviathan of Buffalo is hungry, and the Denver Mountain-Brigands have no intention of surrendering their peak without a bloody scrap! To the winner goes the spoils; to the loser, a long trek back to the docks of disappointment.