Once they have a pile of kindling around the Asmodean Disciplines they can start throwing Sparks at it, in the central hall right near a wooden wall with a cork board above it. And then they can exit the building to watch from a safe distance and grab the sacks.

Spark. Spark. Spark.

It's nice being able to do something concretely Good.

It's not that the convention doesn't matter. Obviously it matters. But at the end of the day, there's a difference between sitting in a fancy room having abstract arguments about the nature of justice, and taking the destruction of the remnants of the Asmodean regime into your own hands. 

For the first time since the convention started, her head feels totally clear. Let the works of Asmodeus crumble into dust and ashes. Let the people of Cheliax rise up against tyranny wherever they find it. Let us usher in a new age of justice, by words or by force.

Dozens of kids are going to get the day, maybe the month, off school. Some heinous teachers are going to need to find a new job. And the next time Raimon has one of those nightmares, the kind where you're late to math class and didn't do your homework and can't remember how to convert coppers to dollars and your teacher has been replaced with Asmodeus Himself with a whip made of fire who sentences you to read your composition book aloud to the class while he counts up the number of lashes for every stammer and every use of the informal "you", Raimon's going to wake up, and remember: it's gone now. It's smoke in the sky. It's a bad memory, and only that.