This fragstain is a problem, yes. The shaman's astral form stares again in annoyance at the glowing wall of the ward, slipping through the rest of the club to root out any other magical surprises.
The rain-soaked breeze patters down outside this building, and Still Waters extends his will upwards, calling to the breeze and imparting a tiny piece of his power into it. He mentally imparts a message to it and sends it on its way.
On the rooftop near Andromeda, a barely-visible impression of a mouth and eye sockets resolves in the falling rain and a breezy whisper with hints of the shaman's accent utters, "The main club area is warded. Tell the others. Checking the back rooms."