Shonagon knows how poorly she will fail, if she attempts to disguise herself as a mere commoner. She snaps up a few of the showier pieces and layers them over the robe she'd chosen from the armory. A merchant's daughter, or a scholar's, she thinks, with pretensions towards standing. That should be an easy enough role to play.

She'd collected a few tiny knives from the armory, and now she tucks them about her person: in her sleeve, in a padded sheath in her bosom, at her ankle. She slips a long, sharp metal rod into her hair, pinning the lengthy tresses up.