Domains: Civic mankind, the common reborn faith, the polity that outlives its founders.
Era of ascension: Great Expansion (~7,000 BSD). Cohort: current. Velarion rose in the first wave of post-Shattering consolidation, as scattered human remnants began to organize themselves as cities again — and needed a god who recognized them back.
Worshipped by: The civic apparatus of nearly every human polity of the Great Expansion — magistrates, charter-keepers, the criers who announce a new ordinance, the tax-clerks who pretend not to know one another off the rolls. Drachma, Inavolin, Tikhaya, Shontobi, Shyona, Oznak, Wendi, Nuun, Bledreon, Qord'ik, and Qindo each keep his rites in some local form. Aldriktch human members add him to Bylzar as a household pair. Tarnak does not worship him; their Ulkevolm shamans rejected post-Craggus civic-mankind framing at the founding, and the rejection is doctrinal. (The worships edge is authored downstream on the worshipper, not here.)
Velarion is the god a city prays to in the moments where it is being a city — when it swears a new charter, when it processes a magistrate onto the high bench, when it expels one of its own and needs the act to bind. His worship has no romance in it. No one prays to him at births or weddings; they pray to him when a person becomes a citizen, or a citizen becomes a magistrate, or a magistrate stands up in some public capacity and speaks as the city through their mouth. He blesses the polity that enforces the contract Bylzar blesses. The two are not rivals; in any merchant town worth the name, a clerk keeps both shrines on the same shelf and lights Bylzar's candle for the deal, Velarion's for the council that will hold the parties to it.
He stands openly in Craggus's shadow, and his theology refuses to pretend otherwise. Craggus was the god of mankind itself, before the Plague broke his faith. Velarion is only the god of mankind organized into polities, and only of the polities that came after. His priests teach that this is the humbler office and the humbler office is the truthful one — that no living god can carry what Craggus carried, and the attempt to claim it would be the next failure. A common civic prayer opens with the phrase "not in his name, in the work that outlasts him." The work is the institution: the court that sits whether or not the magistrate is wise, the watch that walks whether or not the captain is honest, the granary that opens its doors at famine because the charter compels it.
He is named in oath, never in love. A child does not learn his name from a parent; she learns it the day she first swears something her parents cannot revoke for her. Cities that fall — sacked, plagued out, charter-broken by a foreign treaty — lose his attention by degrees, not all at once. The Lost Ages taught the practice. A polity is alive as long as one of its institutions still convenes, and Velarion attends the last surviving court of a dead city for as long as the court is willing to sit.