A troubled young man, raised by giants to be the biggest he can be. Which is currently not very big at all.

Born to a pair of refugee halflings fleeing war, found in what the orc bandits left of their cart by dwarves, raised by the giants who killed the gnolls that ate the dwarves, Weebairn Fjellskjærer has always struggled with his cultural identity, almost as much as with his temper.
 
This ire, quick to rise and slow to cool, has always amused his surrogate father, Himmelsplitt. "With big power comes big responsibility" he would always tell him, "but you, tiny Weebairn, will never be big - so you can do what you like!" If that was supposed to calm him down, it seldom worked.
 
But he channels that anger, swimming laps in his stepmother's egg cup to build stamina, benchpressing cutlery to build strength, doing battle with the giant wasps who're always trying to get in mama's jam. I'm saying he lived in a converted toast rack on Mrs Fjellskjærer's kitchen table. Anyway, that's not important -
 
But the gods did not spare him so he could live his life as a breakfast warden, with only toast soldiers to count amongst his comrades. He was meant to be more, no matter what that old has-been never-was might say. When at last he came of age, he said goodbye to the kitchen table, tied one of mama's leg shaving razors to a toothpick with some of her dental floss and came down from the mountains. He would show Himmelsplitt who the real big man was. He was going to cast a long shadow with his tiny frame. The whole world would tremble at the name Weebairn!