Rather young. Stunted in height and thin in an ugly, malnourished way. Has a false metal arm, stinks of fel, and usually is in need of a bath (or three).
Resembles a sin'dorei male, but is neither pretty nor handsome, and found in girls' things, so perhaps not? Regardless, someone has gone to great pains with this elf, in trying to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse.
Also not a good source of protein. (Besides, the bones might stick in one's craw and choke them.)
Age and gender are ambiguous.
Educated guesses might mark this elf as hardly a man at all, but male all the same, in spite of fashion choice. There are dresses and gowns on any given day, all foamy with lace and ribbons and bows; hair pins and clips, with obnoxiously bright or cheerful designs; delicate shoes that fail to disguise dirt-stained toes; and layers and layers of underthings--but no one should be peeking at those.
Thick, and curling against jaw and nape in a chin-length bob, blond hair clouds around his head as if to mimic the puff off a dandelion's top, while both ruined ears sprout upward like shredded twigs. Whoever dressed him seems to have half-heartedly tackled this mess with scissors and comb, only to give up without following through, because matted bangs obscure much of his forehead and his eyes. Or maybe it is that they conveniently hide the two small horn nubs that jut outward just before each temple.
Being all gristle, skin, and bone underneath the girls' finery worn, he is little more than a wretched skeleton: one obviously formerly nourished less by food and drink, and more from countless days once spent sucking up mana, magic, fel--whatever he apparently could get his grasping, thieving little hands on. His body is somewhat twisted and deformed, perhaps irreparably, as a result.
If one is unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse (for whatever reason a peeping tom would excuse themselves with in staring at jailbait), his body is covered in luminescent, fel-green cracks that zigzag in a seemingly random, spider-webbed or lightning pattern. These are most visible on his arms, shoulders, chest, back, thighs, and buttocks. They are at their worst on his torso and shoulders. Twin scars, thick and gnarled--as if old stitching once popped free--stripe his backside from top to bottom of each shoulderblade.
Three others mar him, as well: a slash to the throat, a thin, ragged line up along the inside of his arm from wrist to elbow, and one across his belly that could suggest even to a layman that the boy was gutted once.
Unlike the blackened skin of his other limbs, which are stained from foot to knee and elbow to fingertip, respectively, the flesh of his right arm ends at mid-bicep, where it attaches to a false, metal prosthetic. This is very delicately crafted, heavy, and solid; he can (and sometimes does) pop it off either when grasped (as a lizard will shed its tail in panic) or to beat at things with when frustrated.
For those with more discerning noses (or with finely-tuned magical senses), Limthala reeks of fel, enveloped in the miasma that comes from a demon's claim. The stink of fel magic is not one soon forgotten nor likely enjoyed, and is one which would mask most other scents around him.
Ultimately, he looks mostly harmless. Yappy mongrels that effectively smell as if they rolled around with a skunk and were dressed with the wrong gender in mind can be considered rendered mostly harmless, right? Well, definitely an eyesore and an offense to the senses, anyway.
The Horde must take on anyone that swears an oath these days