The household in the western side of Old Market was fast asleep as wintry clouds shielded Rhydin from the moons' light. One of the city's many foster homes, it was simple but comfortable, even cozy, and made all the more so by the middle-aged human couple and their teenaged daughter who maintained it. They were good folk, opening their house and lives to children less fortunate, regardless of race or circumstance. Both parents worked at shops in the Marketplace, while the daughter earned some extra money as a courier throughout the city, but they took care to make ensure that someone was always home with their fosterlings, that they never felt alone or abandoned.

On this particular night, there were only four foster children in residence, though the home had room enough for up to a half-dozen. The eldest two, a pair of twin half-elf boys, shared a room in the attic where they could see the moon and stars more easily. Another child, a dwarf girl, preferred a cot in the cellar near the furnace, saying it reminded her of her papa's forge. Finally, on this night the last of them—a goblin lad of 2 years—had curled up beside Mama for a bedtime story, and the father had just chuckled when he came home and found them that way.

It was a calm, quiet night. Almost idyllic.

The were good folk, open-hearted and kind, and all who knew them said that they deserved a far better fate than what befell them.

***

A soft click was the only sound as the doorlatch opened, and then three figures slipped silently out of the cloud shadow and inside the house. Once indoors, they moved with speed and efficiency to locate the residents, parents and children of all sorts alike. Soft rasps barely broke the night's stillness as each of the trio drew knives from sheaths and, without a word, slit their victims' throats. Cellar, attic, bedrooms....all were checked, and none within were spared.

That alone was undeserved cruelty, but there was more. Not content with mere murder, once assured that their victims were all dead the silent killers took great pains to revisit each corpse. Flaying, evisceration, they mutilated the bodies one by one, creating scenes that would leave most anyone with even a shred of humanity, of decency, disgusted and horrified.

Yet these three went about their tasks without hesitation, and indeed with enthusiasm.

Finally their grisly work was done, and after making sure that there were none in view to spy their departure, the assassins slipped out into the night once more.

***

On the wall above the parents' bed, there was left the only indication of why such horror had come to this peaceful home. There, written in the mixed blood of all those who'd been murdered, was a brief but telling message: RACE TRAITORS!

Give aid to the gutter races and die with them!

In a modest but comfortable home at the edge of Seaside, a family slept peacefully, now and then turning in their beds before settling back into quiet slumber. The father was an orc doing his best to shed the stereotype of his race, a tailor who made a decent living and happily taught his two middle children the tricks of his trade. He'd hoped that the oldest would follow as well, but she was dead set on joining the Watch in a few years. The mother, a human woman, served as minder for several children in the neighborhood, giving the youngest child plenty of friends and playmates.

In fact, that very night he was hosting a sleepover, with a half-dozen children spending the night, ranging in age from 4 to 7. The idea behind it was to show the adults that kids could be more mature and accepting, and not get torn apart by differences in race or culture. "We can make safe havens too!"

Unfortunately, it was that very thing that made them a target.

* * *

All the way across Rhy'din, in Old Temple near the south gate, another family slept as well. They weren't so comfortable as the Seaside household, but they had each other and that was enough. Reptilian in origin, though relatively warm-blooded, they slept in a communal room around a large central fireplace that staved off the winter chill. The faint smoke of selected herbs wafted through the household, bringing dreams to the occupants as they lay together.

Sadly, that same smoke hid the scent of intruders, silent figures that crept in with murder on their minds.

* * *

A row house in Dragon's Gate.

A hobbit burrow in Dockside.

An undersized manor house in New Haven.

The apartment above a shop in Old Market.

The night lay heavily upon them all, and through the night came stealthy killers, opening locked doors or lifting well-latched windows without any effort to speak of. They moved quickly through each home, spreading out in pairs or alone, locating their targets.

Upon silent command, they struck as one.

* * *

Serpentine tongues twitched between scaled jaws that coughed up gore as blades cut the lizardfolk in Old Temple to ribbons. An entire bloodline ended that night, from the eldest matriarch who had shed over a hundred skins in her lifetime down to the hatchlings in their cribs.

In Dockside a pair of hobbits were burned alive in their bed, leaving only scorched bones.

The shop in Old Market, run by a dwarf tinker who was well-known for his skill at crafting and repairing cookware, housed two apprentices living downstairs as well as the tinker and his wife. All four were killed, their skulls caved in by the very hammers used in their work.

Similar horrific scenes played out across the city as peaceful families had their lives torn brutally away from them. Each of the scenes had the following message, painted in blood.

Gutter Races Die!