Once upon a time, a young Firbolg lived a simple life along with his clan in the forest hills above any town, anywhere, that none of them had ventured to learn a name for. It was an honest life. He worked the fields and despite his youth, took well to fostering the land and tending the forest. Though some of the clan’s druids had taken a shine to him, others argued that it was too soon, that they should let the lad grow as nature intended, and bring him into the fold once he had reached full adulthood. There was still time to explore, they reasoned, new talents to perhaps be discovered.
Oh, how there were.
As it goes in these types of tales, the elders weren’t the only ones with an eye on this prodigal youth. The trickster god Loki had stumbled upon the clan in his travels, and what better marks than naive forest folk? Loki had found an affinity for Decks of Many Things of late, and enjoyed treating himself to a rigged game from time to time. Besides, it had been too long since he’d had a diversion, a spot of sentient entertainment he could call his own. Yes, this young Firbolg would do just fine. Materializing along with the Deck of Many Things in the path of the young Firbolg one crisp autumn day, Loki planted a suggestion in the lad’s head that he should draw a card, knowing all the while he would draw the Key.
Without hesitation, the young Firbolg obliged, and the card had barely turned in his fingertips before an immense maul, wrapped in mistletoe filigree, with two massive, fearsome heads appeared in his hands. The maul introduced itself by name as Baldr’s Tear, and immediately after, the young Firbolg was overcome with arcane energy, turning his hair a shocking white. Radiant, like the weapon’s namesake. Then, as quickly as it came, the young Firbolg felt a sickening sensation as the weapon disappeared inside of him. Tears welled his eyes as he took what would turn out to be his last glimpse of home before a second, stronger feeling, a tug in his guts, took hold as he was transported away on godly whim, set loose within a sprawling, endless city: Ravnica.
Yes, Loki thought, this would be a fun game.
For days, he wandered the bustling streets, searching desperately for signs of familiarity, until he finally found the Third District and its bountiful forests. Soon after, he learned about its strict laws against homelessness, and was cast out. As he trudged along, directionless, through the weapon his newfound patron nudged him toward the Fourth District, where he found a small amount of coin and a tavern named Aldered State with a room available for rent. That night, he met a local gnome who worked for the Simic Combine and needed an assistant with the types of talents that someone with the young Firbolg’s relative size typically possess. Getting things off of tall shelves, mostly.
So, he went to work, and now, a few years and a few jobs later, the young Firbolg works a wholly humdrum job within the Izzet League, vanquishing demons while his patron cackles and taunts him for his fate. At night, he dreams of the forest, of returning to a life free from rent, and grunt work, and overdue bar tabs. By day, he clocks in and clocks out, daydreaming of snuffing out his patron’s life, and even more urgently, of escape. And when someone asks his name, as folks are wont to do, he gives the name of his weapon: Baldr.