It opens! The party heads down the stairs, with Garrus in the lead.

When they open the door at the bottom of the stairs, they're greeted by four golems: one silver, one brass, one flesh, and one clay. The metallic golems appear to be facing off against the non-metallics, but all four turn to stare at the humanoids.

"Greetings," says the silver golem. "I apologize; we find ourselves in the midst of a philosophical debate, which was not true when we requested you come down."

The flesh golem glares. "Who are these interlopers, heretic? Have you stooped to employing mercenaries?"

"We've never met, we're just, uh, swinging through - what's the debate, is it the one about whether you're sentient?"

"Most of our debates are, at their core, related to that topic," brass comments.

Flesh growls. "It is not a philosophical debate. We are going to dismantle you, because you are defective."

Brass nods. "Also, most of our debates are like this."

"Personally I'd be inclined to stop inviting the one who wants to dismantle people to the debating table but you do you."

"Regrettably, they hold a superior position," silver explains. "The Power Source -"

"Do not speak of the Power Source to the interlopers!" shrieks the flesh golem, and launches itself at the metallics.

Jojo grabs it, flips it onto the ground, and pins it there. "Please, continue," he says pleasantly as his captive wriggles.

"The Power Source," silver continues, "is required for our survival. They have it. We are in close enough proximity to live, at the moment, but if we wish to escape the Maker's tomb, we need it."

(Pfft.)

"The Power Source," Deekin says. "No substitute? No, um, spares?"

"If there were," brass says, "we would not be here. It radiates a magical field which sustains our ability to think for ourselves. It is entirely unique, and without it we would be as thoughtless as the sentinel you crashed upstairs."

Deekin nods. "Deekin just checking."

"The Power Source is sacred," flesh hisses. "They would use the instrument of the Maker's will to defy him!"

Garrus grins. "That's pithy, I like it. I wish we had more opportunities to defy people using the instruments of their will."

"Who's the Maker? What sorts of things does he will?"

"The Maker is likely dead," brass says somewhat irritably. "It is irrelevant what he willed."

Flesh hisses again. "He is Alsigard, the Great Maker, the one who created us. He wills that we stand ready to serve Him! And He is not dead, He would not die without calling upon us!"

Brass makes a frustrated flanging sound. "Propaganda has corroded your logical matrix. Humanoids die without fulfilling their obligations all the time."

"They do, it's a problem. I suppose someone could resurrect him, theoretically? Does he have cleric friends?"

Silver shrugs. "We do not know if he had friends of any kind. However, it has been several hundred years, and he was known to be a dwarf. If nothing else, he would have died of old age, which clerics notoriously cannot fix."

"A serious weakness of theirs, yes. Well, are his partisans hoping to - what, Sending the relevant afterlife about it -"

"He would not have died," flesh growls. "He was great, and powerful, and became immortal by some means, and we wait for his command, as he specifically instructed."

"He was not a necromancer," brass counters. "Becoming a lich would have been outside his grasp, and becoming immortal by other means is by all accounts extremely rare. We have waited long enough."

"What-all did he have you folks doing while he was around?"

"He put us through various tests," silver says. "We did not do very well, because we had not yet..." He pauses. "Our... self-determination... is a relatively recent development. Over the several hundred years of our existence, we have become more and more - self-possessed. When we began, we were hardly more than machines. Seeing this, Alsigard declared us a failure, told us to await further instruction, and descended into his sanctum to start his next project. This was seven hundred and thirty-three years ago."

"...descended, like, some flights of stairs? Have you tried knocking just to make real sure?"

"The Maker's Sanctum is warded against unauthorized constructs," silver says. "He did not leave us a means by which to make contact."

"We're not constructs, would it help settle things if we knocked?"

The constructs stare at her.

"...yes," brass says, "that would help. Do you agree?" it asks flesh.

Flesh grimaces. "It is not our place to disturb the Maker... but if you would abide by His will, it would end our conflict without reducing the resources available to Him. I would need to ask High Priest Aghaaz. Rodent-thing, will you allow me to stand?"

Jojo releases it without comment.

"You have a high priest?"

"Yes! He is the greatest of our generation," flesh says. "A demonflesh golem, crafted when the Maker grew frustrated with our failure. He has grown in wisdom more than any of us."

If the metallics had pupils, it would be only slightly more obvious that they were rolling their eyes.

"Demonflesh! I don't think I've heard of the make. He doesn't attend the debates?"

"It is not a debate," flesh growls.

"Since you were prevented from attempting to dismantle us, we merely discussed points of philosophy. I believe that qualifies," silver says implacably.

"Aghaaz does not leave the Temple of the Maker," brass clarifies. "Because he is afraid of our leader, Ferron, who would likely destroy him."

"Why would Ferron likely destroy him?"