Debris and rubble littered the floor of the cavern and settled in a strange distribution with most falling towards the center of the room where the rift had sucked them in. Others were embedded into the ceiling and walls as the rift collapse shot the debris hanging in the air with astounding ferocity. Etzin and Magrin, smashed against opposite cavern walls, lay in bloodied heaps of rumble.
The golem stirred. The purple tint of the metallic golem remained the same, but something was different. The flesh golem was nowhere to be seen. The golem stood and then waited. It rocked to and fro with an awkward breathing motion. And waited. Without a command, the golem did nothing but stand. It knew nothing, but commands.
Hours passed. At great length a sense awoke in the golem. Unable to understand the sense, the golem felt urged to return to his master. This proved difficult in and of itself, for the golem did not feel drawn to Etzin, his creator, his master, alone, but also to Magrin, the clan master that had led the war against the city of Regar.
Lifting first his left giant leg, the golem moved towards Etzin, but, strangely, his right leg moved toward Magrin. A couple more steps resulted in the golem losing its balance and toppling over.
Once again standing upon its great steel boots, it began to move again. At odds with itself, it lifted a leg that jerked to and fro, neither sure to go forward, neither sure to go back. Slowly, at combat with itself the entire way, the golem struggled slowly towards Etzin. Each step was unbearably slow and agonizing, though it took only four of its ten-foot steps to reach Etzin. Bending at its metallic waist, it scooped up the broken body of its master. Holding its hand flat and before it, it stared at its master, unsure of itself, unsure of its master, and unsure of the pain it felt.
Stilling holding his hand before him, he trod across the hollow and lonesome cavern, to where Magrin lay. Bending low, he scooped the wicked spellweaver into his other adamantine gauntlet. There he stood, like a frozen statue holding both spellweavers in his flat and upturned hands, unable to understand or comprehend anything but mental instructions. It looked from master to master, for both were his master, for the flesh golem was now within him.
And there, in his pitiful statuesque pose, he stayed for days.