Oshundo is a pallid, translucent-skinned illithid whose cephalic mantle looks stretched and waxy, like a candle left too long near heat. Their head-tentacles are perpetually slightly sticky with a viscous secretion that gleams like old varnish; when they speak the tentacles move with slow, deliberate strokes as if writing invisible letters in the air. They wear a high-collared robe patched with symbols and neurons embroidered in silver thread; the robe's sleeves are too long for their thin arms, trailing faintly as they glide. Their movements combine the unnerving steadiness of someone used to long study with sudden, jerking bursts when a new idea excites them. Unexpectedly, they carry a battered child's music box tied to their belt, its tiny gears still clinking whenever Oshundo laughs — a primitive, almost tender counterpoint to their clinical mind.