Gallivant.

Those initial words, or captivating menagerie of opening phrases, are typically some of the most indelible units of a story that an individual can reflect on. Or at least they should be.

Stories are magical things; a culmination of enlightening and vivid imagery encompassing an individual's, or a group's, differing emotions and experiences. Nothing can be as raw, as magnificently dramatic as an intellectually, epochal telling tale.

Which is why writer's write. The difference between those who write and those who are written about is as obvious a contrast from those who play music and those who listen.

So why does society value words so badly? Are the tales of myth and man truly so vital? Or are they simply craving an escape from the reality they live in? These questions are conceptually the underlying probing basis for which this story was written: a story about a young girl, and her adventures. For what other purpose to write than to demonstrate to the world's youth the trials, tribulations and successes of a girl they might once have felt they related to, or even met? What better than to guide the world from the corruption and lead it towards the ethereal benevolence of the universe!

Thus, why I picked up this quill.

Thus, why I was assigned to share this story.

Thus, why I began to see the world in with a newer, more luminescent sense.

Perhaps, it is with guilt that I even dare to include the following paragraph. However, as I am an honest person, for that reason, I must attest to my shortcomings. Unfortunately, I, at times, fail to truly write with the utmost demonstration of proper grammatical structure. The flow will seemingly be off at times, maybe even illogical in its execution. The majority of this tale will demonstrate what was heard from word of mouth, as chaotic, cryptic and at times, dismal that it may be. I will attempt to convey it in the way she shared it with me. However, I will wait to reveal who I am, only occasionally including myself in the writing, in the words – her words. I am simply the one behind the scenes, bolstering and embodying a steady stream of words. For this story is not one that I have lived.

It is only mine to tell.

1. The Girl

gallivant: (v.) to wander about seeking pleasure

She was young. That much was to be said about the girl. Young, and yet her eyes carried the look of one who had lived to see things few could imagine.

Her name: Rosalia Cass. She had always considered it to be a difficult name. The first name was a bit of a mouthful, especially when she was younger. Writing it always took longer than the other girls in her fellow years of education. But she valued it nonetheless. Her mother had found it fitting, so with a bitten lip and a mild grimace, she accepted it as a depiction of who she was: a rose. However, it was in her last name that she stumbled upon her greater grievances. For it was not a name she had been bestowed by her parents, but rather a name she had earned - a story saved for future writings.

She had been born to be extremely simple, with her own unique qualities. She had very fair, pale skin, something she had acquired from, again, her mother. As the years accrued, she gained a quantifiably large and sporadic collection of moles – those, she had a special love of. They made her different. Her hair was blonde; however, it was quite different than her parents' shades: an extremely light shade, with soft wispy sections of silver to heighten its abnormally bright coloring. That hair, well, she tolerated it. As different as it was, it also posed to be difficult in its styling. Its natural wave proved to be simply more than a phase it was going through. And her eyes? I certainly didn't forget them. They're certainly one of the most iconic pairs of eyes I had ever witnessed in my years: a stormy shade of blue, darker by the pupil and the outer ring of the iris, with the middle portion being alternating shades of cyan and slate.

She'd grown up to be the "happy-medium" of heights, not too tall, yet not too short: five feet six inches, with an extremely thin, yet attractive build. Puberty had done her well, but she knew she had yet some more to develop, if not in her looks, than in her mentality.

She was the one who ultimately pleaded with me to write her story. That was her nature. Pacifistic, yet pushy. Quixotic, yet intelligent. A follower, yet also, a leader.

Rosalia. The girl as conflicting as the sea.

A/N: So, perhaps an apology of sorts is due? I have been extremely lazy with my first-ever Fanfic on this website, Finding Me. I, sadly to say, have lost my previous inspiration for it. As I continue to read and edit my words for my old story, I realize the flow is wrong, the story is dismal and that I no longer view it the way I did. In reality, I have started to re-watch One Piece, and while I certainly am not Oda, and will never hold a candle to his writing, I feel that any sort of stories that I have written that reference his should at least try and convey the same love of characterization and world-building.

So, my dear readers, this is what I hope to be the final rewrite. I am truly going to take it slow and pour my heart and soul into this one. I owe it to other writers and the anime/manga series itself to realize in my absence from my story, I have grown, and that their vision for One Piece is something I should aspire to share. I have learned that stories require a balance of concrete characterization, a critical eye towards the world and a realistic approach to dialogues. I have gained confidence, enough to retire my old story and to rebuild it into one with a - hopefully - more promising execution.

That is the beauty of time. So please, bear with me. And review, review, review.