Who Is The Author Of The Green Stone Book?

I still get that giddy feeling thinking about the first time I heard 'Green Green Grass' live — it was on 24 June 2022 at Glastonbury, and he played it on the Pyramid Stage. I was there with a couple of friends, and the moment the opening guitar riff cut through the early evening air, you could feel the crowd lean in. Ezra's live vocal had a brighter edge than the studio take, and he stretched a few lines to chase the sun slipping behind the tents. It was one of those festival moments where everyone around you knows the words even if the song had only just been released, and that shared singalong energy made the debut feel bigger than a normal tour stop. What stuck with me was how the arrangement translated to a huge outdoor stage: the rhythm section locked in, a bit more reverb on the chorus, and Ezra exchanging grins with the band between verses. The performance hinted at how he planned to present the song on the road — pop-forward but relaxed, a tune written for open-air atmospheres. After the show I kept replaying the memory on the walk back to campsite, and it’s one of those live debuts that made the studio version land for me in a new way. I still hum that chorus when I'm doing errands; it reminds me of warm nights and the thrill of hearing something new live for the first time.

Watching the 'Green Green Grass' clip, I learned it was filmed around Cabo San Lucas in Baja California, Mexico, and that instantly explained the sun-bleached palette and open-road vibe. The video leans into those wide, arid landscapes mixed with bright beachside scenes—think dusty tracks, low-slung vintage vehicles, and folks in sun hats dancing under big skies. I loved how the heat and light become part of the storytelling; the location is almost a character itself. I like picturing the crew setting up along the coastline and on long stretches of highway, capturing those effortless, carefree shots. It fits George Ezra’s feel-good, folk-pop sound: warm, adventurous and a little sunburnt. If you pay attention, you can spot local architecture and the coastal flora that point to Baja California rather than Europe. Personally, that mixture of desert road-trip energy and seaside chill made me want to book a random flight and chase that same golden-hour feeling.

Beneath a rain of iron filings and the hush of embers, the somber ancient dragon smithing stone feels less like a tool and more like a reluctant god. I’ve held a shard once, fingers blackened, and what it gave me wasn’t a flat bonus so much as a conversation with fire. The stone lets you weld intent into metal: blades remember how you wanted them to sing. Practically, it pours a slow, cold heat into whatever you touch, enabling metal to be folded like cloth while leaving temper and grain bound to a living tune. Items forged on it carry a draconic resonance — breath that tastes of old caves, scales that shrug off spells, and an echo that hums when a dragon is near. There’s technique baked into mythology: you must coax the stone through ritual cooling or strike it under a waning moon, otherwise the metal drinks the stone’s somber mood and becomes pained steel. It grants smiths a few explicit powers — accelerated annealing, the ability to embed a single ancient trait per item (fire, frost, stone-skin, umbral weight), and a faint sentience in crafted pieces that can later awaken to protect or betray. But it’s not free. The stone feeds on memory, and every artifact you bless steals a fragment of your past from your mind. I lost the smell of my hometown bakery after tempering a helm that now remembers a dragon’s lullaby. Stories say the stone can also repair a dragon’s soul-scar, bridge human will with wyrm-will, and even open dormant bloodlines in weapons, making them hunger for sky. I love that it makes smithing feel like storytelling — every hammer strike is a sentence. It’s beautiful and terrible, and I’d take a single draught of its heat again just to hear my hammer speak back at me, whispering old dragon names as it cools.

Wild guesswork won't do here, so I'll tell you the version I lean on when I replay the game: the somber ancient dragon smithing stone is said to have been fashioned by the dragonkin associated with the old dragon-worshipping orders — the Dragon Cult, in the broad sense. To me, that feels right because the stone's description and the places you find it are steeped in dragon ritual and reverence, not just ordinary forging. The Somber variant specifically seems tied to weapons that carry a kind of sacred or singular identity, which matches the idea of a religious or clan-based crafting tradition rather than a commercial blacksmith. I like to imagine these smithing stones created in cavernous halls where dragon-priests tended to embers and chant for wyrms, passing techniques down through lineages. The lore breadcrumbs — the ruins, the dragon altars, even NPC lines — all point to an organized, almost monastic dragon clan rather than scattered lone wyrms. It's a neat piece of worldbuilding that makes upgrading a special weapon feel like taking part in an ancient rite. I always feel a little reverence when I click that upgrade button, like I'm finishing a story that started centuries ago.

Back when I first started hunting for odd relics at weekend markets and shadowy online stalls, the somber ancient dragon smithing stone felt like the holy grail—mysterious, heavy, and rumored to sing if you struck it right. My approach has always been slow and patient: start with non-destructive checks and only escalate if those leave interesting clues. I’d first document everything with high-res photos from multiple angles, note weight, exact dimensions, any inscriptions or temper lines, and compare those to known references or cataloged museum pieces. Provenance is king; a believable chain of custody—old receipts, letters, or a credible collector’s stamp—instantly raises my confidence. Next I’d move to physical and scientific tests that don’t damage the stone: ultraviolet light to reveal modern repairs or fresh adhesives, X-ray fluorescence to get elemental composition, and microscopic inspection of tool marks and patina. Real smithing stones will bear micro-striations from ancient hammers and telltale oxide layers that take centuries to form. If the XRF shows odd alloys or modern manufacturing markers, that’s a red flag. For the more arcane elements—say faint runes or an embedded dragon scale residue—I’ve tapped into a network of experienced readers and conservators who can test for organic residues or trace metals like vanadium and osmium that mythology often ties to dragon-breath ores. If those point toward authenticity, I’ve learned to get a second opinion from a trusted lab or auction-house specialist before any purchase. High-value items deserve a paper trail and scientific backing; I once passed on a gorgeous stone because isotopic analysis revealed modern smelting signatures. That sting stayed with me, but it’s better than buying a pretty fake. Honestly, holding a verified somber stone—cold, dense, humming faintly—still makes my chest tighten with excitement every time.

I've spent a lot of late nights sketching and riffing on characters from 'Dr. Stone', and over time I’ve learned how to keep my adult-themed pieces both respectful and safe for me and my audience. The biggest, non-negotiable rule I follow is: never sexualize characters who are canonically minors. That sounds obvious, but 'Dr. Stone' has a range of ages across time skips and flashbacks, so I always double-check ages in canon before I touch anything risqué. If there's any doubt, I either age the character up clearly or create an original adult version inspired by the character — changing hairstyle, outfit, facial structure, and giving them a distinct name helps signal it’s a separate creation rather than a direct depiction of a minor. On the practical side, I gate mature content and label it everywhere. I put clear tags like 'mature' or 'R-18', use spoiler thumbnails or SFW cover images, and enable platform age restrictions where available. Different platforms have wildly different rules: some let explicit fanworks behind an age gate; others ban them outright. I keep a quick list of the rules for each place I post (Pixiv, Twitter/X, Tumblr, Patreon, etc.), and I never upload NSFW to a feed that’s public without any warning. Watermarks and low-resolution previews help prevent unauthorized reuse, and I strip EXIF data from files before uploading to avoid leaking any personal info. For commissions or sales, I require buyers to confirm they're of age and I never accept requests that sexualize underage characters or try to involve real-life minors. I also write a short content agreement in my commission form describing what I will and won’t do. Legally, fan work lives in a gray area: studios usually tolerate fanart, but selling it can get tricky. I avoid mass-manufacturing prints for big retailers and stick to small batches, clearly labeled and age-restricted. And because I value community, I pay attention to consent: if a collaborator or model asks me not to post certain images publicly, I honor that. All of this has made my creative process less stressful and way more fun — I get to explore mature themes while keeping boundaries firm and respecting the people and characters involved. My favorite outcome is when someone messages me that my design felt like a believable, adult take on a character without feeling exploitative; that’s the vibe I chase.

I can give you a straightforward take: yes, you can commission adult fan art of 'Dr. Stone' from indie artists, but it comes with several important caveats that I’ve learned the hard way and through watching other folks navigate commissions. First, legality and IP etiquette. Fan art sits in a gray area — most rights holders tolerate or even encourage fanworks, but that doesn’t make it automatically legal to sell derivatives, and different countries treat derivative works differently. For private commissions (you pay an indie artist to make a piece just for you, not mass-produce or sell prints), creators and studios usually turn a blind eye, but selling prints or using the artwork commercially increases the risk. I always tell people to respect the original creators and avoid claiming ownership; credit the franchise and don’t try to monetize unauthorized derivative works. Second, and this is crucial: the characters’ ages and platform rules. Some characters in 'Dr. Stone' are clearly teenagers at times, and many platforms and payment processors have strict rules about sexualized depictions of minors or characters who could be minors. Even if a character is canonically adult, if they’re drawn to appear underage, platforms like Twitter/X, Instagram, Patreon, and payment providers may flag or remove content. I always ask the artist to confirm a character’s canonical age and to keep the depiction clearly adult. If there’s any doubt, request an original character inspired by the series or an adult redesign to keep everything above board. Finally, practical tips for commissioning: find artists on Pixiv, Twitter, Instagram, DeviantArt, or commission listing communities; read their commission rules and content policy — many indie artists explicitly state whether they accept explicit work. Communicate clearly: provide references, state intended use (private vs prints), agree on a price, payment method, timeline, and whether the commission can be shared on the artist’s social media. Offer fair pay and a non-negotiable heads-up about any sensitive content. Personally, I’ve lost count of how many lovely commissions I’ve gotten by being upfront and respectful — those artists are the reason I love this hobby, and keeping it thoughtful and legal makes the whole experience better.

I get why this stuff feels like walking a legal tightrope — fan art lives in a weird, fuzzy zone. For 'Dr. Stone', the manga and anime are copyrighted works owned by the creators and their publisher, so the characters, designs, and story elements are protected. That means any adult fan art that reproduces or is clearly based on those characters is technically a derivative work. In many countries the copyright owner has exclusive rights over derivative works, so selling or distributing adult fan art without permission can trigger takedowns or even legal action. That said, enforcement is uneven. In the U.S. and similar jurisdictions, there’s the fair use doctrine which sometimes protects fan creations if they are sufficiently transformative — adding new commentary, critique, or meaning — but fair use is messy and decided case-by-case. Commercial activity weakens a fair use claim, so selling prints, taking commissions, or using NFTs raises risk. Platform rules and community guidelines matter too: sites like Twitter/X, Tumblr, Pixiv, or Patreon each have their own content and DMCA policies, so you can be taken down even if you might have a legal defense. There’s also a cultural/legal angle with Japanese publishers: while many Japanese companies tolerate fanworks, they draw a firm line at sexual content involving characters who could be minors, or at anything that harms the franchise’s market. So with 'Dr. Stone', be extra cautious around characters who are canonically young. Trademark and right-of-publicity issues are less central here, but explicit adult content, sales, and using official logos or promotional art are common triggers for enforcement. Personally, I try to keep my fan creations respectful, clearly labeled NSFW when needed, and avoid commercializing anything that copies official art too closely — it keeps the joy of drawing without that stressful fear of a takedown.