Father Claud left the Valkyrie staff behind in a dusty, sacred broom closet. Nobody knew he had, until a Silessian priest found it cleaning the Father's office (an important man) — from the baffled priest the news went to Sir Sigurd, and from a haggard Sir Sigurd, her.
The old, skinny stick was heavier than it looked, but it was a feat to carry it at all. Cleaner than when he pulled it out of the Tower, its dangling tassels were more blue than gray, the jewel of the staff perched on a polished golden base.
If she had a Holy Weapon, she wouldn't forget it — Mjölnir was under lock until it wasn't. Claud wasn't used to having a relic. Edda missing its weapon was news to her.
Was that why he hadn't taken it?
Ugh, how could she know? Priest-types were weird.
It snowed the night before (and the night before that), so she and her unwieldy staff trudged through it, ankles chilly. What was the Father thinking? Maybe he wasn't, but he wasn't the type. They were here because he thought so much. He'd be back (certainly) so she added it to her list of reasons to bug Claud.