In what way is he like ice...?
Maruk could not live without organization. He needed everything scheduled and arranged; he knew where he needed to be and exactly when he needed to be there. He kept a notebook with him at all times, and if one glanced over his shoulder while he wrote, they would see a hierarchy of headings, highlights, and bullet points. Just like how formless water molecules become structured when they freeze, Maruk took the irregularity of everyday life and organized it in his trusty notebook.
Perhaps rigidity was not always a positive trait, but Maruk prided himself in being so. He was steadfast in his ways, and any sort of change would find him pushing back against it. This caused him to stress a lot of the time, and it was not unheard of for him to crack under pressure. Still, he was proud because he was dependable. Should a friend call upon him for help, he was always there to support them in any way he could. They knew what to expect from him, and thus they trusted him in their time of need. As long as there were those who called to him, Maruk felt there was no need to change.
One could not say Maruk was a germophobe, no... A better description would be to say that he had a place for everything. His closet, his desk, and even his sock drawer were arranged in a very specific manner. One could name any sort of random item, and he would know exactly where to find it. Of course, he knew of things that had no place in his dwelling: those cursed crumbs and dust bunnies absolutely did not belong in his home. He took great care to keep counters and floors spotless, and his windows had nary a pawprint. He despised carpet, preferring hardwood or linoleum tile where he could see whatever tainted his home.
Maruk did not care for secrets. All they did was muddle things, making a mess of whatever and whoever they got involved with. He preferred to have his facts out in the open where he could see them, it was only then that he could piece together the truth. There was nary a question you could not ask him; he felt there was nothing to be embarrassed about. If people did not like him, they could come right out and say it. As long as everyone was honest, he could know what to expect and act accordingly.
For all his structure and organization, Maruk cared deeply for the arts, more specifically, that of the abstract. He could spend hours looking at the nameless forms of clay or the erratic strokes of a vivid painting. He admired the freedom of such an art, something he knew he could never make himself. There was no structure here, and yet, it intrigued him more than words could ever say. How could there be so much purpose, so much intention, in a piece that contained no clear picture? Each stroke, each form, each color had been chosen for a reason, but the final product looked like nothing more than the drawing of a kit. Maruk could never understand it, but he loved it all the same.
History was always Maruk's favorite subject. Once an event had happened, nothing could change it, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He kept many records of his life: journal entries, old schedules, even a few knickknacks from his childhood. He was by no means a hoarder; he simply wished to preserve his memories for as long as he could. Photo albums filled his bookshelves, all organized by their contents, yet still full of a variety of things. Friends, family, nature... anything that moved him, he would take a picture of it to capture that feeling forever.
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