Gart Woodburn, King of the Underworld

Don’t fuck with Gart Woodburn.
As long as you know and follow this simple, unconvoluted rule, you will receive no grief from the King of the Underworld. Even though he controls an impossibly vast criminal empire that spans the entirety of the west, and some parts of the east, he is not as evil a man as he plays out to be.
When he was young, a late teenager in fact, on their way home from one of the plays of the Wondrous Traveling Troupe of Vern Von Serps, his parents were murdered in front of him by a common street thug, and ever since, he has sworn vengeance on the man who did the deed. And he saw no better way to do so, than to take over as the King of the Underworld, and use the contacts that comes with the position to find him.
After years and years of working and killing and mutilating and stealing and backstabbing and cheating and betraying his way to the top, he finally managed to find this, apparently reformed, former crook. Did he care? Not even a little. Ripping the man from his family, after killing them in front of him in the process, he wasn’t satisfied, oh no sir, he was not. He found a corrupt wizard and payed enough coin to buy a medium-sized town, in order to prolong the life of the murderer’s life through necromancy, and also make sure his wounds heal faster than any normal man’s, whilst increasing any pain he feels a thousand fold.
To this day, maybe even right now, he spends some of his free time torturing the ever living hell out of that poor sod, only for him to heal and never being allowed to die. So again. Don’t. Fuck. With. Gart. Woodburn. The fucking King of the Underworld. Or what’s left of it.