Xel sways behind the grill as Navarre's daydream overwhelms him for a moment. Convenient as it would sometimes be, he's utterly glad not to be telepathic with human people; being bombarded with too much of that would be crazy-making.
Still the dish is clear, and one he wouldn't even mind making a staple, and before long he's cast a heating spell on a stone plate and set it down quietly in front of the sleeping wolf, bearing the scent of tender onions and thyme up.