The climate in the Gelatin Mountains is sticky, sweet, and almost always dessert-adjacent. It rains sugar every Monday and Friday, coating the region in a glistening crunch that makes walking both delightful and hazardous. On other days, the sky sometimes mists with chocolate drizzle or cotton candy fog, depending on humidity and dessert mood swings. Temperatures remain steady at “soft and wiggly” degrees year-round, with occasional bursts of warm pudding wind from the east. Thunderstorms are rare, but when they occur, the lightning smells like toasted marshmallow and causes uncontrollable laughter in nearby goats.

The Gelatin Mountains are made entirely of colored gelatin, rising into towering, semi-transparent peaks that shimmer in the sunlight and wobble politely in the breeze. The tallest peak, Mount Jiggleton, is known for its cherry-colored summit and panoramic views of the Gummybear Valley. Grassy plains of edible moss stretch between the mountains, dotted with syrupy streams and occasional cheesecake plateaus. Sinkholes filled with soda pop occasionally bubble up and sing jingles from forgotten cereal commercials. The land is both bouncy and treacherous, especially for those with poor balance or weak dessert resistance.

Humans do not live in the Gelatin Mountains permanently, but the region is visited regularly by scientists, snack philosophers, and thrill-seeking dentists. Travelers often arrive hoping to ride syrup slides or adopt a gummypus, though most end up stuck in mac & cheese flower patches and needing gentle extraction.

Local myths speak of a secret jelly-based society known as The Wobblers, who maintain the rhythm of the mountains and guard the secret of eternal sugar rain. Despite the lack of permanent homes, makeshift camps and candy huts often appear after sugar rains, built by sugar-fueled wanderers and ambitious pastry chefs. Life in the mountains is unpredictable, delicious, and mildly unsafe—but nobody ever leaves hungry.