Moving with an easy grace for such a large man, Garic has perfected the "humble swagger".   His dark eyes twinkle with humor, as if the entire world is a joke that he's laughing at, even if its at his expense.   His hair is long and curly, and fairly well groomed, though his beard looks as though he's still trying to make up his mind about growing one.
He's a fairly handsome man, especially when he smiles, which is often, but his face and body had a colorful history of scars and blemishes that seems to both wear proudly and seem unwilling to talk about.

His most valued possessions seem to be his finely crafted longswords, and his shimmering mithral chainmail.   Though seeming to prefer a good party or a pleasant evening with friends, Garic will throw himself into a fight as if he has something to prove, if only to himself.

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History
Grogden was a very successful blacksmith in the city of Closson's Crossing.  The mining town had a fairly thriving economy, and Grogden the Smith was a respected man, a pillar of the community.

His son Grellick....not so much.

Grellick hated being a blacksmith.   Though as large and strong as his father, the younger man loathed the smoke, and the heat, and the mindless repetitive effort.  HE longed to be a warrior.   But his stern and proud father expected his son to carry on the family business and reputation.

He tried several times to join the town guard, but his father was a good friend of the Guard Captain (and the prime repairer of their weapons and armor) and Captain Kreeger always refused him, since he knew that Grogden had forbidden it.    In frustration, the young man began wandering at night, looking for trouble, and found it in some back alley street brawls being organized by some of the city's criminal figures for sport.  Betting and other vices were common at the events, but Grellick saw only the chance to fight.

His natural talent and smithy-born strenght served him well, and he rose up the ranks, going from fighting other novices with his fists to battling experienced knife and swordsmen.    Grellick loved it and wanted to be the king of the "Backalley Brawls".    He always wore a disguise and called himself "The Hawk" to hide from the guards who wandered by to get a cut of the profits, so they wouldn't snitch on him to their captain.
He had dreams of becoming famous, impressing both the captain of the guard and his cold, work-obsessed father with his talents.
THEN they'd surely let him pursue his own dreams.

But it was barely a year later that disaster struck.  After rising to near the pinnical of fame as "The Hawk", a new fighter showed up to challenge him.   He made a show of swaggering into the ring, enticing the crowd and glorying in their adulation before settling into beating his opponent.
However, it didn't work that way.
The man, a human with a missing ear, fought with a skill Grellick had never seen before, and in minutes had delivered a humiliating beating to Grellick as if he himself were a novice and a clumsy one at that.    The crowd turned on The Hawk, enjoying seeing their "hero" knocked to the dirt in such an ignominious fashion.

Later, Grellick would see how niave he'd been, hoping for loyalty and compassion from the kind of criminal scum that frequented the fights, but at the time, still a very young man, he just felt hurt, and betrayed.  Fighting back tears of anger and embarrassment, "The Hawk" limped away from the games for the last time.
The injuries were great enough that Grogden figured out what had happened, and delivered a verbal beating of his own, scornfully rubbing metaphorical salt in the young man's wounds.  The elder man was shamed at having his only son caught in such a base and scandalous activity, and took out his anger on his son, verbally tearing into the younger man and his 'sad little adventure'.

After venting his spleen, the older man went to bed, still laughing spitefully, telling his wayward son that he'd be back in the morning to "get back to your real life".
Grellick lay in his bed, seething in pain and humiliation.  Eventually, he sat up and limped to his wardrobe, and changed his clothes.
Gritting his teeth the entire time, he gathered his possessions, and snuck out of his childhood home, like a thief in the night.

He was nearly out of town when he allowed himself to cry.  All his dreams of glory and riches, and fantasies of wine, women, and ballads sung in his honor, were all a broken as he felt.    By dawn, his tears were dry.  Forever, if he had any say about it.

He kept walking until he was in the next town, a little crossroads community called Barnes Landing.   He had some money, so one breakfast later and he was talking to a caravan master, and hiring on as a guard.  Grellick looked a bit disheveled and disreputable, but with recent goblin attacks, people willing to go to remote towns were few and far between.   The young man was hired.

When he was asked his name, he hesitated.
"Garic", he said.   The caravan master scowled at the obvious fib, but shrugged and said nothing.
Garic felt a great weight lift off his bruised shoulders.
"Grellick" was a loser, the son of a soot-stained blacksmith who had delusions of being a gladiator.
"Garic" was a soldier, and a swordsman.

His fellow caravan guards included two young men, both with the same stars in their eyes that Garic probably had, two crossbowmen who seemed to be personal friends of the caravan master, and a older grizzled warrior who seemed half asleep most of the time.

The trip started out uneventful as they entered the hazardous mountain trails, but during a lunch break they were ambushed by goblins.   They poured out of the cracks of two small canyons.    Garic was excited at the prospect of proving himself.
Then one of the young swordsmen died, a goblin arrow in his throat.   Garic had never seen real violent death this close.  He'd always hoped that he wouldn't panic if he saw a fellow soldier die.    And he was right.  He wasn't afraid.
He was enraged.   The young man, still filled with bile and hate from self-loathing, drew the sword he "borrowed" from his father's workshop and rushed at the goblins.   He didn't remember a lot about what happened, but when the red haze cleared from his vision, he was standing over a dozen dead goblins, with several more running for the hills, and had a goblin's long ear between his teeth for some reason.

After spitting out the ear and throwing up, the dazed man rejoined joined the caravan as it continued on their way to their next stop.  When the old grizzled warrior, who'd also done very well in the battle, was sure that the unstable Garic had calmed down, the old man approached him and began speaking about combat, and fighting.  He saw a lot of potential in the powerful young man, and took Garic under his wing to try to hone his crazed berzerker style of fighting.
His name was Vorik, and he was a former king's general, who'd lost his post and money to drink.   Two years sober, he was a tired, broken old man, who fought with twin longswords with more elegance than power.   Garic found himself entranced by Vorik's almost dance-like fighting style, and became a devoted disciple.   By the time their stopover in the mountain towns were over, Garic was fighting with twin longswords himself, and killed two dozen more goblins and two worg wolves.

Garic the Warrior had arrived.

Vorik, feeling that the stodgy life of a knight had no place in the real world, also supplemented Garic's fighting training by teaching him various skills of stealth and a few other tricks that Vorik had picked up in his checkered past.   Though previously a lukewarm student in most thing, Garic thrived under the old man's teachings.
He stayed with the caravan for another few years, then the caravan master retired himself.  Vorik, feeling too old to get another job, finally retired to a small village.
He was proud of Garic, and the younger man felt in Vorik the father he'd wished he'd had.   Though Vorik assured him that he was ready, Garic felt lost and adrift.
Gritting his teeth, Garic went out into the world to make his name again.