Kruvashim Had'ar - The red path

Deep within the eastern jungles, among cloying sweat and heavy air, the Kruvashim Had’ar thrives in the damp twilight of the jungle floor, sheltered from the sun's glare under a canopy of suffocating green. It is an inconspicuous red flower, almost lost in the riot of colors, thriving on the sweet scent of decay and feeding of the remains of animals that lost the one fight that mattered. Many a herbalist has tried to grow it, but it stubbornly defies the hand of gardeners, the attempt always ending in swift, blackened death as if the plant refuses to draw breath outside the dark shadows of its home.
Desperate or foolhardy adventurers travel into the depths of this green hell, risking life and soul just to find a single flowering cluster. But even for those who succeed against all odds, the journey back is a race against the sun. The plant's sap begins to lose its potency the moment the stalk is severed, curdling into a useless, foul-smelling resin if not kept wet at all times. By the time a single stalk reaches an alchemist who dares to process it, it carries a heavy price of gold and blood, lost to the merciless jungles and endless miles across the vast desert.

Refined by processes arcane and shrouded in secrecy, the sap is turned into a poison that carries its victims back to the jungle to die. The final product is an oily, almost tasteless fluid, easily hidden and slipped into food or drink.
Only minutes after consuming it, one takes the first steps on a fatal journey. What starts as a warm, tingling sensation grows to a fever pitch, mimicking the cruel, unforgiving heat of the desert at noon. This fire burns for days,burning hot and cruel without killing, as though their very marrow caught flame. And just when even the strongest of will can take no more, the heat lessens to an almost bearable level.
It is a cruel mercy; merely the next leg on the path back to the jungles. The legs and feet develop open, sore blisters as if one had walked a thousand miles without shoes, and the crushing weariness of a long, endless travel without sleep falls upon the poor soul.

The last and final leg of the journey is the cloying, humid strangle of the jungle. Sweat breaks cold and thick. Every agonizing breath becomes a fluid, heavy gurgle, a desperate struggle for air. To those trying to comfort them in their final hours, the victims appear to be drowning on dry land, their skin turning a haunting, mottled purple as they are strangled, until their heart stutters and finally, blessedly fails. To this day, there is no cure, no remedy, no help - and so it is no wonder that the slightest hint that one might possess even a single vial of the Had’ar will bring the full wrath of the kaharan empire on those who dare to use it.