Chapter 1 - Wake Up

Off the northwestern shores of Pannulum, lies a small yet bountiful haven called Floracane Island. The island is decorated with a symphony of wild sugarcane swaying in the breeze, vibrant with life and home to a variety of different species. Among them, one has slumbered undisturbed for a time so long it feels as though the island has forgotten him. 

At the heart of this verdant isle stands a small, decrepit house, its structure weathered by the endless march of time. Overgrown vines and thick underbrush creep across its walls, nature reclaiming what was once manmade. Inside, in a dim and dusty bedroom, a human-sized gingerbread man lies still in his bed — A Delicazen, frozen in repose.

His body is motionless, lifeless to the casual observer, as if he was no more than an elaborate confection forgotten for display.

Until suddenly, his eyes and mouth snap open.

In an instant, his body lunges forward, unleashing a radiant explosion of light. Colors — brilliant, kaleidoscopic, otherworldly — pour from him, bathing Floracane Island in a dazzling spectacle of luminescence. The lights only last a fleeting moment before fading, leaving the island in its natural tranquility once more. 

The gingerbread man's eyes and mouth dim, his burst of energy being drained entirely. His body goes limp as he tumbles off the side of the bed, landing unceremoniously on the worn hardwood floor. The impact jostles a nearby bookshelf, sending a cascade of books onto the floor while some directly strike the gingerbread man.

But he doesn't flinch.

He doesn't make a sound. 

His eyes refocus as he now lays sprawled out on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. Seconds stretch into minutes, each one heavier than the last, before he finally finds his voice.

"I can't move."

His words comes softly, hesitant, as if he's uncertain they belong to him. His limbs, previously numb, slowly begin to tingle with the faintest signs of life. As the gingerbread man feels his senses returning, he wills his mind to command his body.

But something is wrong.

"Why... can't I feel my fingers?"

Lifting his hand to his face, he stares at the appendage in disbelief. His hands are shaped like mittens, smooth and featureless. Immediately confused, the gingerbread man sits up and swirls through his thoughts as he tries to piece together his revelation. 

"Why are my hands like this? No... are these even mine? But I had fingers. Didn't I?"

The questions start to multiply, spiraling deeper into the recesses of his mind. He tries to search for answers, but is left with only fragments of splintered memories slipping through his grasp.

"What was I doing here? My name... My name is..."

Silence.

The gingerbread man knows nothing of himself — not his name, purpose, or how he came to this place. 

Yet his mind is a vault of knowledge. He knows how to read, he knows how to write, he knows what is up and down and his left to his right. He knows so much, yet nothing at all about himself.

Shakily, he rises to his feet and staggers towards a dusty mirror leaning against the wall. The figure staring back at him is a stranger.

His body looks human, yet is decorated enough to be distinguished as something entirely new. His golden-brown skin gleams faintly in the dim light, adorned with teal frosting in delicate wave patterns around the top of his limbs and ankles. Two bright candy pellets sit embedded in his stomach and chest, and a teal gumdrop forms his nose. His cheeks are marked with red rings, while his eyes — pie-shaped and colored a vivid purple — seem unnervingly alive.

He leans closer, studying his reflection with uncertainty. He couldn't figure out why, but it felt like the entire time he was forgetting something and yet, as the seconds pass, the sense of strangeness began to fade. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he accepts the reality staring back at him.

This is who he is.

The gingerbread man scans the room, his gaze lingering on every detail in search of clues. What was he doing in a worn down house like this? His eyes fall to the scattered books on the floor. He picks one up, flipping through its fragile, yellowed pages, only to discover it's just... baking recipes? 

He tosses the book aside and flips through another one of the books strewn around him. Recipes, techniques, treat designs  — all related to confectionary delights. It's an odd collection, one that leaves him with more questions than answers. Aside from the recipe books, the bookshelf is rather bare. 

If there were once other books here, they're long gone.

Turning his attention to the overall house, he begins to take stock of his surroundings. Though modest and sparsely furnished, there was a distinct charm buried beneath the layers of dust and decay. The remnants of the home suggest that at one point it could've been rather cozy, even inviting. But now it feels empty.

Hollow.

Several doors within the house are shut tight. The gingerbread man tests the handles, pulling with all his might, but they refuse to give, as though bound by something beyond time and rust. Despite the house clearly showing its age, any further secrets remain stubbornly sealed.

As he walks through an empty hallway, he pauses by a window, its panes smudged and streaked with grime. Beyond the glass lies a world he doesn't recognize, a vibrant wilderness that stretches out into the distance. He presses a hand against the cold surface, his reflection merging with the faint glow of the outside world.

In that moment, the gingerbread man makes up his mind. Whatever answers he seeks won't be found in this crumbling shell of a house. If he wants to uncover the truth about himself, he'll be forced to venture beyond these walls.

His best bet now is to start —