The important moment seemed to already have passed unnoticed, or so it would have seemed to Faruq, who had been hoping for some sort of keyword which would allow him to launch right into some manner of long-winded, dramatic speech, occupy some time and space and make it known to the world of kindred politics that none who shared the blood of 'mad al-Assad was to be ignored or trifled with - so as to finally argue his points, spit out his questions, celebrate his victory some more and possibly come out of this as both a hero and a richer man. Yet as it stood, he found himself watching two random shmoes whispering and losing himself in the notion. Why did they seem so interesting all of a sudden? One of them was the P.I. from earlier, Rick. The other one... Likely his sire, then. Don't think we've been introduced, anyway. At any rate, they best not be whispering about me, there.
Then, however, something different caught his ear: The French Revolution? Old Goblin's really old, then, that was like, what, a houndred years ago? Makes sense, though - You've died once already, chances are you do not age much further. Maybe decompose.
The young man shuddered, or felt like shuddering, as the notion passed over him. Which would explain the smell, though, come to think of it. And happens to be a perfect argument.
After all, the implications of some of these people being older than they appeared, and potentially older than all of the USA, or similar, were rather obvious, and as such, easily combined with the holes in the traditions. And then that name... Jackal the Nine-Bladed. Kinda poser, huh? This is it, sexy clanless girl, I know exactly what to do!
And loudly, he proclaimed, stylishly waiting for the first short silence, the first minor break in conversation: "You people do realise that this is a huge waste of time, basically, don't ya, now?"