Spurring quickly into action in the wake of his opposition’s counter, Reginald began to formulate. The time in which to do so came for him as the foe disapparated, leaving him alone at the crossroads, wading his eyes trough the fog in search of the next spell to burst out; waiting in the wing, he maintained a sharp focus on the casting of ‘finite.’ For the time being, he figured, he’d just match this person spell for spell. It’d be no different from the others’ strategy thus far.
As expected, the next spell came in, heralded by a hoarse roar from the distant caster some number of yards down the road. Again, the matter of dueling instincts took control of Cross’ actions. Wand flourished forward, and posture balanced, he cast the negating spell dead onto the reduction curse, retracting his arm to cover his eyes as soon as the former had been released. Both spells collided with one another about twenty feet from him, sparking a burst of light, which would have otherwise left his both wizards’ eyes temporarily indisposed; as the light faded, he found that he was more or less a sitting duck, possibly in line with the shot of hunter in the brush.
For what he intended to be the last time in this clash, he apparated, moving himself from the streets to the rooftops near the intersection, standing about twenty feet back from the front side. There, he observed the streets below. He held the high ground for now; but in a wizard’s duel, that could always become shifted against him, unlike those Muggle gunfights. Regardless, it gave him, for that time being, a vantage point over his foe. Now… that last spell came from… that direction. He looked across the street, to the row of tightly packed shops and attached apartments, and the thought settled on him that he wasn’t dealing with a rookie of dueling. He’d have to level entire rows of building just to get to him. Or, I could just… Indeed! Pointing his wand to his side, away from the suspected location of his foe, he uttered under his breath, “Expecto Potronum.”
The silvery wisp, barely, perhaps not even visible from a distance against the foggy backdrop, formed out of the wand’s tip. Out for the corner of his eye, he could make out the formation of a corporeal visage coming from the wisp: A scaled looking thing, with a sort of curled in tail dropped down to the ground. A chameleon, the representation of Cross’ innermost self, scurried across the street as a semi-translucent construct. It’s orders clear: scope out the shops across the street, and report back; in this time frame, Cross laid low, and somewhere out of view. Carry on, my little soul bearer.