A gentle breeze rolls through the small clearing. The grass swaying to its rhythm and the insects singing to its beat. A slight smell of burnt foliage attacked the senses of the two figures stood there. One with a mace of fire, the other with a staff of oak.
"I gave you a choice. To help a friend or to defend the symbol of a guild lead by a crackpot mageling. And you chose to help your friend. You dealt the blow that destroyed the aforementioned symbol... and burnt half of the clearing." Spoke the figure wielding the flame covered mace.
"I never liked him anyway, he had no grace."
One of the figures produced a sealed letter from his cloak and set it upon the shrine. The corpse of the Guardian was left leaning against the Altar also.
The letter read
"And so the one sheep that fell to your flock Has returned to us I am proud of him."