You had a fairly nice life in Tucson, Arizona. You had a happy, relatively uneventful childhood, and were always interested by Native Americans. You took up traditional archery, and became reasonably good at it. You made a point of making your own arrows in the Native American style, crafting your arrowheads out of pieces of slate found on walks through the desert.
When you were thirteen, the strangest thing happened. You had fallen asleep in your workshed, out behind your house. You awoke to a loud crash, and saw a coyote walking through the door. But this was no normal coyote. It walked on two legs, and had had long, vicious claws. Demonic flames burnt in the pits of its eyes. And it seemed hungry. It lunged at you, teeth bared. You covered your face with your hands, and as you did so, the hundreds of handmade arrowheads hanging on the walls snapped into place in front of you. The creature howled in agony as the points pierced its fur. You glanced around and concentrated. More arrowheads shot off the wall, plunging into the beast. It fell to the ground, and, after convulsing for a moment, died. You went back to sleep.
Two days later a man named Zahir came to you and told you that you had magical potential. He brought you to his monastery for Knights in Mendocino, where you’ve been for the last few months. You’ve become reasonably good friends with Amethyst and Raven, and have a crush on Aurora.