Unbalanced

Your eyes open to an unfamiliar room. Small and entirely circular, save for a single red door, and almost entirely empty. As you unsteadily take to your feet, your boot brushes against a small slip of paper on the ground. The language scrawled across it in black ink is nonsensical to you at first, but slowly the shapes seem to arrange and form coeherant words.

- This is all I can give to you.

You are not in a when or where that you know.

This is their time. -

As soon as you are finished reading, the text reverts to its original form. As instantly as it does, you realize that you are without your belongings, and the clothes you wear are a simple green robe, it's edges stained with mud and time.