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The ebbs of the warp washed over the imperial cruiser, its city-scape surface protected only by its pulsing geller field. The hull of the massive vessel creaked, the sound lost to the void. As warp energies crashed over it, the geller field flickered. Within one of the half-dozen armouries of the ship, Roland reached for his bolter, claiming it from a rack of a dozen other such weapons. A boy of sixteen Terran years, Roland was a neophyte of the forsaken knights. He was for all intents, a sub-space marine, and while he lacked the massive body of an astartes, he was taller than the average man, and wider.
Terrace reached for his heavy bolter. A weapon of old, it was inscribed with the names of its previous users in Nano-lettering. He hauled the massive weapon over his shoulder, and passed Roland a spare box clip. Grabbing the hundred-bolt box in both hands, Roland squinted inquisitively. "You really think we'll need it?" the novice asked the near-veteran terrace. A keen young boy, the novice had hastily applied himself to his apprentice-ship to terrace, and try as the devastator might, he could not help but like the boy.
"we will be fighting any number of warp-beast if the field fails, it is always better to have and not need, rather than to need and not have." the boy nodded, and attached the magazine to his modified exo-armour. The copper armoury door irised open and devastator sergeant Durien stepped through the now opening. He, like the other two, was fully armoured, the blue and purple Mk 7 plate shining in the White light of the armoury. The sergeant was a shaven man with a synthetic lower jaw, the original having been ripped off by a green-skin long ago.
He was known as sergeant-squeaky among the initiates, for when he spoke his jaw would occasionally creek like a door hinge, a curious quirk that neither the chapter’s apothecaries nor techmarines had been able to rectify.
Although, at this time, there was only steel in his voice.
"Are you both prepared? The geller field is estimated to fall in under ten minutes, perform last min-SSS-ute War gear checks."
Roland nodded "yes sire" and quickly reached to a large pouch on his belt, so as to hide his smile. And draw his data-slate. Terrace leant his heavy bolter against the bulwark, and retrieved his own.
"Yes, yes. Just make sure castor hasn't been fiddling with his armour again, it damn near cost him his arm with those green skins." terrace replied.
"Aye, I made sure of it, he's a fool that one."
They shared a chuckle, Durien’s voice creaking and giving the sound a sinister under-tone, with Roland staying silent.
Roland began to read the Daemon bestiary.
"Sergeant, sire, what do we expect to face?"
Durian’s eyes narrowed, " 'tis not your duty to think,
[i] apprentice [i]"
Roland almost visibly shrunk back from the suddenly wrathful sergeant.
"Easy durian, what's up your arse?" terrace came to his apprentice’s aid.
Durian glared before turning on his heel and leaving.
The iris spitting a thick oil at the back of his powered backpack, as tough the ship was angered by the man's coy behaviour.
"Don’t worry Roland, he's still in mourning of the death of brother-Regio."
Roland hung his head at the mention of his predecessor, whom had been Durian's apprentice before he was ripped in half by an ork war-boss.
He often found himself feeling sorrow for Durian’s loss, and wondered if his own mentor would mourn as such if he passed.
Forcing such thoughts out of his head, Roland checked his bolter, the routine as immortal as any ritual.

[i] mag lock: check.
Case support: check.
Recoil dampeners: check.
Anti-jamming contours: check.
Bolt-capacity: 20.
[i]
Terrace nodded approvingly, a smile playing on the corners of his lips.
With a grunt, terrace stood. "Remember, they will be everywhere. If they touch you, you're as good as dead."
"Yes, sire."
"What rate of fire are you starting on?"
Roland clicked a small switch on the side of his bolter.
"Sub-automatic?"
"Good boy."
They left the armoury, into the dank, steel corridors that always made Roland think of the gullet of some giant creature. Terrace' boots thudded with every step, and were it not for his exo-armour Roland would have had to jog to keep up with the steady pace.
Just as Roland opened his mouth to ask a question, the ship pitched to one side. Roland was thrown to the side, and terrace fell over. They hit the wall, and Roland felt something break.
Pain raced through his mind, the edges of his vision red. Terrace was yelling, but Roland only caught fragments of it over the alarms sounding and the veil of pain.
"WHAT... WHERE ARE ... ROLAND!"
Roland felt himself being hauled over the astarte's shoulder.
"Hang on boy!" terrace was running, his heavy bolter held in both hands as roland's armour mag-locked to the shoulder plate of terrace's so he would not fall. In terrace' race through the halls, Roland caught glimpses of astartes and crew running about, and terrace yelling over the mayhem.
"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
He was answered when the shadows of the corridor shifted with a will of their own, and a pair of cyclopean, horned, and horribly disgusting monsters emerged.
The geller field had failed.
The warp had arrived.

Not bad. The dialogue is good, but I got a little lost at some points. Try being more descriptive and make sure to mention who's talking more often.

 Mr Nobody wrote:
Not bad. The dialogue is good, but I got a little lost at some points. Try being more descriptive and make sure to mention who's talking more often.

Thanks mr. Nobody.
The main perpose of this was (or if I continue it, is) to see if I can manage to get some personality and emotion into my writing.
I have some wild symptoms of autism however and find this ratherosclerosis difficult. I was consentratng so hard I didn't even remember to include descriptions of the two main people! Lol.
Yeah, reading back I suppose I probably should to some more speaker definition, mainly in the part where terrace says the whole "have better then not have" thing?
I usually ramble on about UNIMPORTANT things (in my first draft of this I ha dnearly a full paragraph about the chair they were sitting on! )
And was trying to not do that.
Any more opinions, notes, cc, and advice appreciated.

Use more capital letters?
Please?

More!

part 2.

The daemons grinned with toothless mouths, shuffling forwards on legs too thin to hold their disease and maggot bloated bodies. They were hideous. Any other description was in-appropriate. Bloated bodies and distended stomachs dripped puss and other vile substances. Arms like twigs were held up, the skeletal right hand carrying a knife. Their jaws hung limp, forever grinning. A horn of black bone split the central fore head, and cyclopean eye leered from the extension of their brow. [i] plague bearers [i].the disgusting creatures laughed at the revolt plastered over Terrace’ face and began to shamble forward, the metres between the two parties rapidly closing. Terrace snapped out of his stunned revolt, and squeezed the heavy bolter’s trigger hard. With A bucking recoil powerful enough to dislocate a mortal’s wrist, the weapon fired. Exploding bolts pierced and shredded daemonic flesh, and viscera and green fluid, organs and intestines, dripped and gurgled from the plague bearers, whose liveliness appeared un-effected. They grinned on, one now with no lower jaw, and Terrace preyed to the emperor that he and Roland would survive. His prayers were seemingly answered, as a bolt bounced off a bulk ward and penetrated the back of a daemon’s head, exploding its brain into a puss-y, ichoric pulp. With that ridiculously vile grin still on its face, the Daemon fell face down, squelching as it hit the ground. Grinning maniacally, the second Daemon lunged with super natural agility, its knife flying toward Roland. With a roar of defiance, terrace hauled his heavy bolter up. The knife glanced off the weapon, its blunt edge scraping the metal. With a monstrous noise of twisting steel, the heavy bolter Clogged with puss, and green corrosion spread over its surface.
Roaring battle lust, terrace threw the ruined weapon at the plague bearer. Frisbee-like, the heavy bolter squelched through the things flesh, and chopped it head from shoulders. The body thudded to the Floor in a liquid mess. Terrace fell to one knee, the battle having tired him. Roland de-magnitudes and rolled on to the dark deck, the blood dripping from his mouth shining in the dull fluorescents above. "Roland! Boy, damn you, wake up!" terrace yelled. Roland's eyes fluttered open, a glint of fear in them. "Terrace, the floor..."
But now terrace heard it too, a shuffling, grating noise. The
Sound of a hundred shambling monsters. Terrace saw Roland’s bright blue eyes widen in terror, and felt his own face freeze, the blood run from his skin. Slowly, slowly he turned around. From the direction of the closest airlock, a horde of the daemons walked forward, their bodies crammed together. As the shambling horde began to slowly advance, terrace drew his gleaming combat knife, and Roland clicked hit bolter to full-auto.
"We die here, don't we terrace?" Roland said, resolve and terror commingling in a single sentence.
"It would appear so, boy." terrace sombrely announced. Roland stood, supporting himself on terrace.
The boy looked into the Eyes of his master, of his friend, of his battle-brother, steel resolve burning from them.
"Very well." he pronounced. "For the emperor." he whispered.
"For the forsaken." terrace finished.
The horde muttered, like a mantra, every mouth moving as one,
"for nurgle-eth."
Roland fired.

Much better description in this piece. there were lots of spelling mistakes, though. But remember, the edit button is your friend. Read it over and over again and edit out those spelling mistakes; you might even think of a better way of wording a sentence.

part 1 edited for spelling mistakes.

part 2 edited for spelling mistakes. and capitals.

So um, I have an Idea for a story involving my new chapter, a different one to the one portrayed here, so do you guys think that I should continue this or leave as a cliff hanger?