Gothidoc stands before you an average Hobbit in appearance. He stands at average height, he is not fat, not overly thin. His face is average too, not stunningly handsome nor ghastly to the eye. His eyes are deep blue, ever so slightly lined and weathered - this could be said for the rest of his face - from days under the high sun, squinting as he toils. The mop upon his head sits thick and unkempt, reaching just past his pointed-ears, with meandering sideburns down each temple. 

His broad shoulders and muscular arms belie a laborious youth and adult life. If this was not enough of a telling sign of the life of a farmer, then perhaps his thick, calloused hands would; his hands seem constantly unclean, always bearing the patch marks of hard graft - cuts, blisters and bruises.

The garb that adorns his body range from comfortable shirt and jerkin, to thick practical traveling robe. They are often a little worn, thread-bare even. His attire, and he, more-or-less always smell of sweet scented pipe-weed. His long wooden pipe seems rarely out of his reach, more often then not actually tucked into his belt like a blade in a sheathe.