Moon Blood

We had never been equals. Even before the executions and hunting parties, "moon-blood" was a word children used to pick on each-other and were scolded for saying. There was never a funeral when a moon-blood died. We were scum, scamps, scapegoats. Always had been. Still, we used to just be outcasts; tolerated, but never given the same privileges as other commoners. But then the "defending" got out of hand. Suddenly a moon-blood's death wasn't just excusable; it was a trend, a right of passage, an honor to kill a moon-blood. Men began making their livings as blood-hunters and spliced a whole new rank of aristocrats, courtship even. What the provinces were digging themselves into became nothing short of genocide.
So we kept our blood to ourselves, and who could blame us? The moon blood became a secret, and those who had it kept quiet. Which of course, only made things more complicated.